WRITTEN 


DECORATIONS 


LOUISE- 

BEECHER 
CHANCELLOR 


HARRV 

B 
MATTHEWS 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY 
B.  W.  DODGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES   OF  AMERICA 


UR  tale  begins  with  the  com- 
mand "Make  merry,"  from 
Good  Queen  Bess.  At  the 
height  of  her  success  and 
popularity,  she  is  conscious 
of  the  gradual  passing  of 
her  youth.  Childhood  has  been  sad ; 
girlhood,  oppressed  by  want  and  peril*? 
young  womanhood,  weighed  down  by 
cares  and  responsibilities  such  as  not 
seldom  kill  strong  men.  And  now  be- 
fore old  age  destroys  the  power  to 
enjoy,  there  is  yet  a  little  time.  Let  us 
then  make  merry! 

There  was  like  to  be  fun  and  frolic 
enough  to  go  round.     For  the  poor, 

1 


,: 


street  pageants  and  processions  would 
be  free.  So  genial  was  the  mood  of 
the  crowd  that  even  unlicensed  actors 
and  acrobats  ventured  to  practice  their 
calling  in  the  open  streets,  and  though 
the  sober  Puritans  looked  askance, 
they  dared  not  express  their  disap- 
proval. Such  disapproval  might  be 
misconstrued  as  disloyalty.  The 
Queen  was  about  to  celebrate  the 
thirty-seventh  anniversary  of  her 
reign.  Must  not  proper  sympathy 
with  the  occasion  include  sympathy 
with  even  the  most  boisterous  partici- 
pators? 

Outside  the  town  limits,  the  theatres 
were  prepared  to  offer  the  most  popu- 
lar tragedies  and  comedies  of  the  time; 
for  the  fashion  had  been  set  at  court, 
and  it  was  heralded  abroad  that  the 
actors  of  the  Rose  Theatre  were  to 
play  for  the  Queen.  The  brilliant 
Earl  of  Leicester  had  been  the  first 
patron  of  this  company,  and  during  his 
2 


O' I/ON  DON 


life  the  players  had  won  great  favor  at 
court.  At  present  they  held  their 
license  from  Hunsdon,  the  Queen's 
chamberlain,  and  their  success  still 
continued. 

But  while  Elizabeth  licensed  a  com- 
pany of  her  own,  which  proudly  bore 
the  title  of  the  Queen's  Players,  it  was 
not  likely  that  the  selection  of  another 
group  of  actors  for  her  amusement 
could  give  universal  satisfaction.  The 
Queen's  Players  were  devoured  with 
jealous  rage ;  only  fear  of  losing  their 
license  prevented  a  boisterous  display 
of  animosity  against  the  chamberlain's 
company.  Lord  Hunsdon's  men  were 
hard  to  reach.  They  lodged  within 
hailing  distance  of  their  theatre  on  the 
Bankside,  Southwark.  They  were  a 
group  of  devoted  friends,  and  came 
and  went  in  goodly  numbers.  There 
was  no  rivalry  among  them,  and  none 
of  the  disorder  caused  by  indiscretion 
and  Use  majestCj  which  so  often 


O'  LONDON 


brought  about  the  withdrawal  of  li- 
censes from  the  other  companies  of  the 
period,  and  all  too  frequently  landed 
their  performers  in  jail. 

The  resultant  good  standing  of 
Lord  Hunsdon's  men  made  it  unsafe 
for  the  Queen's  Players  to  engage 
them  in  a  brawl ;  the  underlying  motive 
would  be  too  plain.  And  yet  a  vague 
rumor  was  abroad,  hinting  that  there 
was  trouble  in  store  for  the  Lord 
Chamberlain's  Players.  Who  was 
responsible  for  such  a  rumor,  no  one 
could  tell;  and  what  manner  of  calam- 
ity should  befall,  no  one  knew.  But 
certain  it  is,  that  the  day  before  the 
festivities,  Philip  Condell  was  ailing; 
and  that  on  the  morning  of  the  seven- 
teenth, he  was  ill  of  a  fever. 

Now,  to  be  ill  of  a  fever  is  common 
enough  even  in  our  times.  Philip 
Condell  had  been  a  member  of  the  com- 
pany only  a  few  weeks,  and  that  he 
should  be  the  one  stricken  down 
4 


seemed  innocent  enough.  But  to 
those  of  the  inner  circle,  who  under- 
stood that  because  of  him  a  certain 
play  had  been  selected,  to  those  who 
had  seen  his  lovely  face  and  who  knew 
that  he  was  to  play  a  woman's  part,  the 
fact  that  he  should  be  stricken  so  sud- 
denly was  a  proof  of  villainy;  and 
more  than  one  man  felt  that  if  he 
dared  he  could  tell  where  the  blame 
belonged. 

The  head  of  Lord  Hunsdon's  play- 
ers at  this  time  was  the  elder  Burbage. 
He  was  fortunate  enough  to  have  in 
his  company  an  assistant  who  relieved 
him  of  the  duties  of  stage  manager, 
and  made  it  possible  for  him,  while 
running  the  finest  company  in  Lon- 
don, to  devote  most  of  his  time  to  busi- 
ness ventures. 

Burbage  was  interested  in  building 

and  improving  theatres,   and  ran  a 

paying  livery  stable  in  connection  with 

them.     The  young   man   who   made 

5 


o'ix>rsrtx>N 


these  outside  enterprises  possible  was 
beginning  to  attract  considerable  at- 
tention by  his  writing  of  poems  and 
plays.  He  was  not  a  native  Lon- 
doner, but  had  been  driven  by  personal 
misfortunes  to  seek  a  living  in  the  city. 
Though  he  entered  Burbage's  com- 
pany in  a  humble  capacity,  his  versa- 
tility soon  made  him  invaluable.  He 
was  a  veritable  Jack-of-all-trades,  and 
could  turn  from  stage-carpentiy  to 
playwriting  as  easily  as  he  could  take 
the  place  of  an  absent  musician  or  find 
the  stone  in  a  lame  horse's  foot.  But 
if  he  excelled  in  one  thing  more  than 
another,  it  was  in  making  friends. 
His  tact  was  so  fine  that,  coming  as  an 
outsider  into  the  company,  he  had 
worked  his  way  into  leadership  with- 
out creating  opposition  or  jealousy. 
While  one  of  the  foremost  actors  of 
his  day,  his  physique  was  not  equal  to 
that  of  Richard  Burbage,  the  man- 
ager's son;  and  he  never  encroached  on 


O'L-ONDOrSf 


the  latter's  right  to  be  called  the  lead- 
ing tragedian  of  London. 

In  considering  Master  Will  Shak- 
spere  intimately,  one  must  realize  the 
rare  personal  charm  and  the  lovable 
characteristics  that  made  his  success 
possible.  But  for  these  qualities,  he 
would  have  remained  an  alien  and  a 
countryman  among  his  town-bred 
companions.  No  amount  of  genius 
alone  could  have  surmounted  that  one 
insuperable  barrier,  lack  of  opportu- 
nity. His  associates  enjoyed  him; 
therefore,  they  welcomed  him  and 
made  way  for  him.  Shakspere  was 
liked  before  he  was  admired;  he  was 
loved  before  he  was  revered. 


In  which  Lord  Hunsdon's  Players 
meet  with  an  unforeseen  calamity. 

O  the  lodgings  of  Master 
Will  Shakspere  came  a 
hurried  messenger  at  dawn 
on  the  Jubilee  morning.  He 
brought  bad  tidings.  Philip 
Condell's  condition  was  very 

«jfrot  from  t&e  star*  *o  3  mp  jtrtffment  pitttfe, 
atnU  pet  met&infca  %  fcatoe  aatronorap, 
^3ut  not  to  tell  of  ebil  lucfe." 

Sonnet  XIV. 


grave,  and  the  two  Burbages  ur- 
gently commanded  that  Master  Will 
should  at  once  see  what  had  best 
be  done.  It  was  evidently  beyond 
their  power  to  plan  the  next  move. 

"Have  you  a  fast  horse  outside?" 
asked  Will  of  the  man. 

"No,  but  the  best  in  the  stable  is  at 
your  service.  Master  Burbage  said 
that  if  you  could  think  of  anyone  to 
take  the  part " 

"We  must  not  waste  time  in  such  an 
effort,"  interrupted  Shakspere.  "How 
could  one  be  found  to  take  the  lead- 
ing part  in  a  new  play?  My  lines 
must  be  given.  There  is  not  a  soul  in 
London  or  in  all  England  who  can 
act  the  part  of  Juliet,  save  Philip 
Condell.  For  him  the  part  was  writ- 
ten. Moreover,  it  is  his  beauty  that 
is  to  be  my  excuse  at  court  for  show- 
ing them  a  tragedy  instead  of  the  fun 
they  love. 

"Look  now!"  and  he  turned  to  the 
10 


messenger  with  great  seriousness. 
"Will  you  carry  out  my  commands 
without  fail?  We  are  disgraced  and 
undone  if  aught  goes  amiss  to-day !" 

"But  all  has  gone  amiss!"  groaned 
the  fellow.  "Lay  it  not  to  me!" 

"Oh,  you  give  up  hope  too  soon! 
Success  comes  not  that  way.  I  have 
in  mind  a  possible  remedy  for  our 
trouble.  John  Florio,  an  Italian 
scholar,  is  now  in  attendance  upon  my 
Lord,  the  Earl  of  Southampton. 
With  the  store  of  classical  knowledge 
in  his  brain  is  also  much  that  is  of  won- 
derful use.  He  can  send  Philip  a  po- 
tion to  help  him  through  the  day. 
I  will  write  a  brief  letter,  and  do  you 
get  an  audience  with  Signor  Florio 
and  explain  to  him  fully  the  whole 
matter.  You  will  find  him  at  White- 
hall, where  my  Lord  attends  the 
Queen  during  these  festivities." 

"And  do  you  believe  that  he  can  ef- 
11 


O' LONDON 


feet  a  cure  so  speedily?"  asked  the  man 
with  some  incredulity. 

"If  he  cannot  cure,"  assured  Shak- 
spere,  "he  can  at  least  arrest  the  prog- 
ress of  the  disease  for  a  day  or  two. 
These  Italians  are  as  far  ahead  of  us 
in  science  as  they  are  in  art  and  poetry. 
Signer  Florio  has  a  fluid,  which  I  have 
tasted,  a  veritable  water  of  life.  I  am 
convinced  that  it  will  support  Philip 
through  the  day,  and  after  that — let 
come  what  may!" 

But  though  he  had  filled  his  emis- 
sary with  sufficient  enthusiasm  to  in- 
sure the  faithful  carrying  out  of  the 
errand,  Shakspere  himself  was  far 
from  satisfied  with  the  prospect  before 
him.  He  wrote  the  missive  and  bade 
the  man  make  all  possible  haste,  ad- 
vising him  to  ride  a  certain  roan  mare 
that  he  knew  to  be  fleet  and  sure-foot- 
ed ;  his  fondness  for  her  had  heretofore 
kept  him  from  dwelling  upon  her  good 
points  to  others. 

12 


p 

He  looked  out  of  his  window  to  be 

m 

4 

SB 

r?J 

sure  that  the  fellow  was  making  haste, 

fSs 

0« 

- 

and  felt  satisfied  to  see  him  running  in 

^ 

the  direction  of  the  stables.     The  hour 

was  still  early,  and  but  few  people 

were    abroad.     Yet  Shakspere  knew 

that  on  holidays  folks  bestir  themselves 

betimss,  and  that  the  thoroughfares 

would    soon    be    crowded;    then   the 

rider's  chance    for   speed   would    be 

doubtful. 

He  proceeded  to  dress  himself  with 

the  care  that  befitted  the  occasion,  but 

his  heart  was    heavy    indeed.     Here 

was  the  long  expected  day  that  should 

have  brought  the  hour  of  his  triumph. 

Now  his  only  wish  was  that  all  might 

be  over  as  quickly  as  possible. 

"Cruel!"  he  muttered,  "a  dastardly 

cruel  deed  to  aim  a  blow  at  that  help- 

less boy!    Burbage  could  better  have 

been  spared.     I    should    have    made 

shift  to  play  Romeo.     But  the  Juliet 

on  whom  I  have  set  my  heart,  and  for 

13 

A 

) 

\      yv  \ 

\  \                       n 

whose  face  I  have  been  thanking  my 
fortunate  star!  It  seems  like  striking 
a  woman  when  the  cowards  turn 
against  what  is  so  fair  and  young! 
Poor  child,  he  must  wish  that  he  had 
never  left  the  Cathedral  Choir  to  join 
such  a  set  of  rascals  as  the  London 
players  prove  to  be!" 


14 


II 

In  which  a  woman  is  unsuccessful 

ALF  an  hour  later  the 
principal  actors  of  the 
Rose  Theatre  were  gath- 
ered in  the  narrow  street  in 
front  of  Philip  Condell's 
lodgings.  On  the  low 
doorstep  stood  a  tall,  handsome,  pow- 


•ftotu  tottb  tbits  rag?  shall  brant?  bolU  a  plea  . 
action  ie  no  Btronjer  tfcan  a  flotoerl" 

Sonnet  LXV. 


(erful  man.  He  was  facing  the 
crowd  and  declaiming  tragically.  As 
Shakspere  sauntered  up  from  the  di- 
rection of  the  Bear  Garden  near  which 
pe  lived,  the  orator  broke  off  his 
harangue  and  gave  a  shout: 

"Hello!  Hello!  What  news,  Will? 
What  are  we  to  do?" 

"You  have  the  latest  news!"  an- 
swered the  other.  "What  is  the  re- 
port from  within?" 

"Philip  Condell  is  taken  with  the 
fever,"  replied  Burbage.  "The  nurse 
says  that  he  cannot  play  to-day,  and 
his  sister  would  not  even  let  me  see 
him.  I  announce,  therefore,  that  the 
play  is  off.  It  would  be  impossible 
if  or  me  to  go  on  with  my  part  without 
|his  support." 

A  chorus  of  sighs  and  groans  fol- 
llowed,  but  Thomas  Armin  spoke  up 
hopefully: 

"The  play  must  be  changed;  let  us 
give  something  else.  Why  not  'Mid- 
16 


s 


summer  Night's  Dream'?  It  pleased 
Lord  Bedford  so  well  that  the  Queen 
could  not  take  it  amiss." 

"Nay,  now!  My  new  play  shall  be 
played  this  night!"  declared  Shakspere 
convincingly.  "Who  supposes  that  I 
would  demean  her  Majesty  by  produc- 
ing a  play  that  all  the  town  knows  was 
written  for  my  Lord  Bedford's  wed- 
ding? This  is  no  ordinary  occasion! 
Our  success  to-day  means  not  only  our 
success  as  individuals,  but  as  a  com- 
pany. More  than  that,  it  may  mean 
the  raising  of  our  profession  to  the 
dignity  that  befits  gentlemen.  We 
are  rising  above  the  evil  report  that 
dubs  us  unstable  roysterers.  We  are 
called  to  the  highest  presence  in  the 
land !  Here  is  a  chance  for  success  and 
honor!  And  shall  we  let  a  rival  troupe 
undo  us  and  gloat  over  our  defeat?  Go 
up,  Burbage,  and  bring  Condell  out  to 
the  light!  Let  us  see  how  sick  he  is! 
The  fresh  air  can  do  him  no  harm." 
17 


O'lvONDON 


The  speaker's  words  were  followed 
by  an  astonished  silence;  without  mak- 
ing any  response,  Burbage  turned  and 
re-entered  the  house.  As  he  did  so 
Tom  Armin  called  out  encouragingly: 

"Thou  art  strong  enough;  he  need 
not  be  afraid  to  trust  thee!" 

"Bring  him  down,  or  we  shall  go  up 
for  ourselves,  to  see  how  sick  he  is," 
spoke  up  Sly,  "and  whether  he  does 
right  to  run  the  chance  of  disgracing 
us." 

"He  might  better  play  to-night  and 
then  die,"  announced  the  play-writer 
calmly.  "But,  Burbage,"  he  added, 
"bring  him  down  exceeding  careful." 

In  an  agony  of  suspense,  Shakspere 
waited,  his  face  pale  with  agitation,  his 
nervous  hands  clenched.  In  his  heart, 
he  knew  that  his  decision  to  present  a 
tragedy  before  the  fun-loving  Queen 
was  the  height  of  audacity.  To  him- 
self he  had  confessed  from  the  first 
that  he  was  taking  a  great  risk.  The 


Jy\ 


O'LcONlDON 


success  of  his  new  play  at  Court  would 
mean  his  own  personal  success;  it 
would  justify  the  friendship  of  certain 
men  in  high  places.  With  the  delib- 
erate intention  of  making  a  dramatic 
sensation,  he  had  taken  a  popular  Ital- 
ian plot  and  put  his  whole  soul  into 
it,  counting  on  Philip's  exquisite  ren- 
dering of  Juliet,  and  Burbage's  im- 
passioned acting  of  Romeo  to  take  the 
Court  by  storm.  The  egotism  of 
genius  now  caused  him  to  feel  that  the 
success  of  his  effort  must  be  secured 
at  any  cost;  in  comparison  with  this 
success,  nothing  else  seemed  of  conse- 
quence. 

Meanwhile,  the  stalwart  Burbage 
ascended  the  stairs,  and  entered  a  small 
room  with  a  sunny  window  that  over- 
looked the  street. 

A  young  woman  was  looking 
through  the  shutters  at  the  little  crowd 
below.  When  Burbage  entered,  she 
19 


w 


sprang  between  him  and  a  door  at  the 
side  of  the  room,  crying  wrathfully : 

"You  shall  not  have  him!" 

The  man  folded  his  arms  with  an  air 
of  patient  endurance,  but  said  nothing. 

The  girl  kept  her  post. 

"My  brother  is  not  a  slave!"  she  ex- 
claimed, flashing  indignant  dark  eyes 
on  the  intruder.  "Pray  tell  me,  is  his 
present  calling  deemed  so  low  that  he 
may  be  jested  with  while  dying?" 

"Most  fair  lady,"  responded  the 
other,  "I  should  be  sad,  indeed,  did  I 
believe  your  brother  to  be  fighting 
with  death!  The  height  of  his  fever 
will  not  be  reached  for  several  days, 
and  we  who  are  actors  believe  it  would 
only  ease  his  mind  to  go  through  the 
part  on  which  his  mind  is  set.  In  any 
case,  we  insist  on  judging  for  ourselves 
whether  or  not  he  is  able  to  go  with  us. 
For  Philip's  own  sake,  every  effort 
must  be  made  so  that  he  may  return 
Lord  Hunsdon's  license,  which  would 
20 


v\ 


1 


certainly  be  revoked,  if  through  him 
the  Queen's  performance  should  prove 
a  misadventure.  In  that  case,  not  only 
will  he  be  ruined,  but  all  his  fellow- 
players  will  share  the  disgrace.  Now, 
see!  This  at  least  is  true:  if  we  take 
him  with  us,  we  can  begin  the  play ;  and 
if  he  faint  or  fail  before  the  Queen,  we 
have  a  man  among  us  who  will  spin  off 
such  a  sonnet  as  will  overcome  her  old 
heart  with  rapture!  Cynthia's  fair 
beams  will  have  cast  a  spell  over  her 
humble  servitor,  who  swoons  at  sight 
of  her  beauty !" 

"Her  beauty!  I  thought  the  Queen 
too  old  for  beauty!" 

"Ah,  sweet  Phyllis,  Majesty  is  never 
old,  and  Majesty  is  always  beautiful." 

"Oh,  how  he  has  been  rejoicing  in 
this  opportunity!"  exclaimed  the  girl. 
"To  play  for  the  Queen!  He  has  been 
living  for  weeks  in  the  hope  of  this 
very  chance.  How  perfectly  he  gave 


21 


o1lrONT>orsr 


the  lines!  How  beautiful  he  looked! 
And  oh,  to  think  of  his  losing  all!" 

"He  must  not!"  responded  Bur- 
bage.  Now,  fond  sister  that  you  are, 
help  the  old  nurse  to  dress  our  dear 
Philip,  and  then  trust  him  to  me.  I 
will  guard  him  so  that  even  his  twin 
sister  Phyllis  need  have  no  fear  for 
him.  I  will  carry  him  as  tenderly  as 
though  he  were  of  spun  glass." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  sorrowfully. 
"You  do  not  know  how  sick  he  is,"  she 
said.  "And  yet — to  ruin  his  life  when 
his  future  is  so  full  of  promise !  Oh,  I 
know  not  what  to  do !"  Her  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"He  must  come  with  me,"  said  Bur- 
bage. 

She  turned  a  pale  face  to  him  and 
exclaimed  breathlessly: 

"You  would  be  very  kind — and 
good?" 

"I  swear  it!"  he  answered. 

She  walked  slowly  to  the  inner  door, 
2% 


and  Burbage  eyed  with  wonder  the  two 
long  braids  of  black  hair  which  fell  like 
thick  ropes  almost  to  the  hem  of  her 
dress.  He  thought  half  indignantly 
of  the  inferior  beauty  of  Mistress  Ver- 
non's  hair,  which  was  one  of  the  Court 
sensations. 

Phyllis  passed  into  her  brother's 
room  and  closed  tfie  door  behind  her. 
Though  the  heavy  stone  walls  made  it 
impossible  for  words  to  be  heard  from 
one  room  to  the  next,  the  actor  felt  the 
scene  that  was  taking  place  so  near 
him.  He  could  see  in  imagination  the 
despairing  quiver  of  the  girl's  lips,  and 
the  tears,  kept  back  in  his  presence, 
that  now  brimmed  over  while  she  at- 
tired her  beloved  brother,  as  for  sac- 
rifice. 


In  which  Philip  is  encouraged  to  make 
an  effort 

HE  doorway  was  watched 
eagerly  by  the  group  of 
men  whose  fortune  was  at 
stake,  and  when  at  last  Rich- 
ard Burbage  appeared,  carry- 
ing their  missing  comrade,  a 


fjira  as  for  a  map  Until  -Batttre  store 
Co  sljoiu  false  &rt  to&at  Ijratttu  toas  of  pore/' 
Sonnet 


sigh  of  relief  went  up  as  from  a  single 
man. 

Will  Shakspere  pressed  hurriedly 
forward  and  seized  one  of  the  boy's 
limp  hands.  He  felt  the  pulse-beat, 
and  then  touched  Philip's  forehead 
with  his  palm,  the  better  to  judge  the 
height  of  the  fever.  The  look  of  the 
face  disturbed  him.  Philip's  eyes 
were  large  and  wild.  His  soft  dark 
hair  emphasized  the  clearness  of  his 
skin,  which  was  like  ivory  except  where 
the  cheeks  glowed  crimson  with  fever. 

"Disease,  how  beautiful  thou  art!" 
exclaimed  Master  Will.  "Burbage, 
he  will  look  the  woman,  will  he  not? 
But,  oh  Lord!  How  sick  he  must  be  to 
show  so  red  and  white!  Is  he  con- 
scious? Does  he  know  us  at  all? 
Philip,  do  you  remember  me?  Who 
is  it?" 

"It  is  the  lark,  the  herald   of   the 
morn,"  murmured  the  boy,  closing  his 
eyes  with  a  faint  smile. 
25 


T 


At  the  reply,  a  shout  of  delight 
arose. 

"If  he  can  quote  from  the  play  as 
well  as  that,  he  can  act.  Eh,  fellows  ?" 
asked  Burbage.  "What  say  you?  He 
does  not  rave  who  calls  our  songster  a 
lark!" 

"Huzza!"  cried  the  players,  as  their 
prize  was  carried  off  in  triumph. 

Burbage  and  the  young  actor  kept 
up  a  stream  of  tender  assurances  and 
encouraging  words. 

"I  shall  prove  a  better  physician 
than  that  you  have  left,"  whispered 
Burbage.  "Sister  Phyllis  is  far  too 
exciting  as  a  nurse,  and  the  old  aunt  is 
enough  to  scare  a  sick  man  into  the 
grave.  We  shall  do  well  by  you, 
Philip!  Do  you  rest  comfortably  on 
my  shoulder?  Lie  quiet,  I  feel  you  no 
more  than  a  feather's  weight.  You 
wanted  to  come  with  us,  did  you  not?" 

"You  came  to  save  my  name  and  to 
make  my  romance  immortal!"  ex- 
26 


claimed  Will  Shakspere  tenderly.  "I 
shall  look  to  you  as  to  the  apple  of  my 
eye.  Anything  you  need,  you  have  but 
to  whisper  to  me.  I  will  rock  you  to 
sleep  in  my  arms  or  tell  you  stories  the 
night  through,  so  you  do  not  fail  me 
in  this!  Can  you  go  through  with  it, 
Philip  ?  I  have  sent  to  the  Palace  for 
a  potion  that  will  help  you." 

"Peace,  peace!"  murmured  the  boy 
wearily.  "My  brain  is  seething!" 

It  was  now  toward  nine  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  a  rehearsal  was 
called  at  the  Rose  before  the  company 
should  march  to  Whitehall.  There 
the  hour  for  the  performance  had  not 
been  set,  and  the  players  would  await 
the  Queen's  pleasure. 

Shakspere  was  in  torture  between 
hope  and  fear.  Would  Philip's 
strength  hold  out  until  the  message  re- 
turned from  Whitehall?  And  why 
was  the  man  so  long?  He  suggested 
that  the  boy  should  save  himself  from 
27 


O'lXXNDON 


fatigue  by  omitting  all  the  long  pas- 
sages and  giving  only  the  cues;  but 
Philip  said  that  such  a  course  would 
only  confuse  him,  while  it  could  not  in- 
spire the  rest  of  the  cast. 

"Your  patience,  gentlemen,  and  I 
think  I  can  get  through  the  day,"  he 
added  with  a  courage  that  was  new  to 
him. 

Philip  Condell  had  always  been 
somewhat  shy  and  timid,  but  now, 
though  he  clung  like  a  sick  child  to  the 
two  who  had  made  him  their  special 
charge,  he  showed  considerable  pluck. 

As  the  rehearsal  progressed,  a  new 
charm  was  discovered  in  him,  a  certain 
beauty  and  delicacy  born  of  his  illness. 
His  failure  to  remember  the  proper 
exits  and  entrances,  and  his  hesitation 
in  regard  to  the  stage  business  would 
ordinarily  have  called  down  a  storm  of 
rebuke  on  his  head,  for  Shakspere  was 
an  exacting  master.  But  now  all  was 
tender  consideration.  Joy  welled  in 
28 


the  poet's  breast  as  it  became  apparent 
that  whatever  else  was  forgotten,  the 
boy  remembered  the  lines  he  had 
learned  so  thoroughly  previous  to  his 
illness.  There  was  no  hesitation,  and 
the  words  came  clear  and  sweet.  How 
exquisite  the  voice!  How  tender  the 
love  scenes !  How  awful  the  tragedy ! 

"He  has  been  near  the  other  world," 
whispered  one ;  "the  spirits  have  taught 
him!" 

"Oh,  Philip,  only  do  as  well  at 
Court!"  entreated  Burbage. 

But  Shakspere  flung  his  arms 
around  the  boy's  neck  and  kissed  him. 
"Truly,  I  have  made  a  pretty  part  for 
you,"  he  said,  "and  only  Juliet's  death 
insures  my  forgiveness  for  showing  the 
Court  how  lovely  a  woman  might  be !" 

They  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
stage  so  that  Philip  could  rest  while 
the  procession  was  forming  to  march  to 
the  Palace. 

"Tell  me,  Shakspere,"  said  the  boy, 
29 


taking  his  friend's  hand  affectionately, 
"how  did  you  so  well  know  what  a 
woman  would  say  and  do?" 

Shakspere's  keen  eyes  clouded. 

"It  is  not  what  she  would  say  and  do 
— it  is  only  what  she  ought  to  say  and 
do.  Women  never  do  as  they  ought 
except  in  my  plays!"  he  added,  bit- 
terly. 

Philip  closed  his  eyes  with  a  sigh, 
and  the  long  dark  lashes  swept  his 
cheek. 

"I  hope  that  is  untrue,"  he  said  at 
last,  "but  even  in  these  plays  of  yours 
do  the  men  and  women  suit  you?  Fool- 
ish Romeo  loving  Rosaline  and  killing 
himself  a  few  days  later  for  Juliet!" 

"Simpleton,  a  man  may  love  a  thou- 
sand times  as  Romeo  loved  Rosaline! 
He  can  love  only  once  as  Romeo  loved 
Juliet !  Do  you  understand  ?" 

The  boy's  cheeks  flushed,  but  he  con- 
tinued audaciously:  "Why  his  haste? 
A  little  more  patience,  and  they  might 
30 


have  been  united,  the  happiest  of 
lovers!" 

"The  happiest?  Those  that  love 
and  die  young!  Their  union  is  more 
perfect  in  death  than  it  could  ever  be 
in  life!" 

"No,  no,  Will  Shakspere!  My  heart 
breaks  for  Juliet!  Why  does  she  not 
flee  with  Romeo  to  share  his  banish- 
ment in  Mantua?  It  is  what  I  would 
have  done!" 

"What  you  would  have  done,  my 
sweet  boy?  Why,  Juliet  was  a  lady! 
She  had  the  courage  to  face  death,  but 
not  disgrace.  We  must  not  ask  that 
of  woman,  it  is  a  doubtful  virtue." 

The  players  were  now  ready  to 
march  to  Whitehall,  each  one  made 
gay  in  a  scarlet  silk  cloak.  These 
cloaks,  presented  by  the  Queen,  were 
nothing  more  than  wide  scarfs,  and 
were  worn  folded  around  the  body  with 
an  end  flowing  loose  from  the  left 
shoulder.  Philip  trembled  as  he  stood 
31 


O'  LONDON 


up  to  be  draped  in  the  garment.  Bur- 
bage  had  secured  a  sedan  chair  for  him 
to  ride  in,  but  the  boy  grew  paler  and 
paler  each  moment,  and  when  he  was 
about  to  step  in,  he  turned  half  faint- 
ing toward  Shakspere. 

"I  cannot  go!"  he  gasped. 
"Strength  fails  me!" 

No  sympathy  came  from  that  quar- 
ter. 

"Shame  upon  you!  Here  you  have 
been  chattering  to  me  like  a  magpie 
when  your  tongue  should  have  had  a 
rest.  I  believe  you  are  more  fright- 
ened than  sick!  You  act  like  a  very 
girl!  Fainting,  indeed,  at  such  a  time 
as  this!  Here,  Sly,  some  liquor  to 
hearten  this  babe! 

"Burbage,  for  God's  sake,  see  if  that 
man  has  returned  from  Whitehall!  I 
could  have  come  and  gone  twenty 
times  in  this  space.  He  may  be  wait- 
ing at  my  lodgings.  Send  there  and 
to  the  stables." 

32 


IB 

For  a  few  minutes,  all  was  excite- 

Hf 

s 

ment.     Sly  hurried  in  with  a  cup  of 

K 

ES 

4 

warm  Malmsey  wine,  and  Burbage  re- 

Gf~ 

- 

turned  with  a  small  phial,  which  he 

' 

slipped  into  Shakspere's  hand,  unob- 

served.    The  contents   were   emptied 

into  the  cup  of  wine,  and  then  the 

whole  was  poured  down  Philip's  un- 

willing throat.     It  must  have  been  a 

strong  dose,  for  tears  of  indignant  pro- 

test were  forced  from  his  eyes.     Then, 

coughing  and  sputtering,  he  was  hus- 

tled into  the    chair    without    further 

ceremony. 

"Lock  the  door,  now  that  our  bird 

is  safe  inside,"  advised  Shakspere. 

Burbage  turned  the  key. 

"I  believe  he  would  run  away  if  he 

had  the  power,"  he  said.     "He  acts 

like  one  bewitched." 

"Yes,"  replied  Shakspere,  "and  it  is 

not  hard  to  guess  whose  poison  has  be- 

witched him.     They  knew  my  hopes 

were  pinned  on  this  boy." 

33 

/ 

. 
\ 

1 

i 


1 


"The  poison  is  somewhat  slow  of 
working." 

"The  boy  drinks  less  than  we.  He 
has  not  had  enough  to  kill  him.  A  few 
more  drams  would  have  done  it.  But 
we  look  well  after  our  fellows,  Bur- 
bage.  We  shall  pull  him  through." 


34 


IV 

In  which  we  meet  an   Earl  and  a 
Mother. 

HE  procession  now  issued 
from  the  main  door  of  the 
theatre,  where  a  throng  of 
people  waited  to  see  the  for- 
tunate men  selected  to  pro- 
vide amusement  for  the 


art  tb?  motber'0  jjlagg,  an*  a&e  in  t&ee 
Call*  batfc  t&*  Utoelp  2lptU  of  &er  prime.*' 

Sonnet  III. 


Queen.  Many  a  friendly  greeting 
was  shouted,  and  many  an  exclamation 
of  admiration  was  called  forth  by  the 
beautiful  costumes  of  the  players;  for 
Lord  Hunsdon's  retinue  went  bravely 
attired. 

On  the  next  corner,  a  number  of 
rival  actors  from  The  Curtain  has  as- 
sembled with  a  few  unpleasant  missiles 
concealed  under  their  doublets.  These 
were  intended  for  Philip;  the  ill-na- 
tured fellows  rightly  judged  that  some 
old  eggs  and  vegetables  would  take  the 
courage  out  of  him,  and  might  even 
bring  tears  to  his  girl  face.  He  was 
no  expert  at  managing  a  sword  or  any 
other  weapon,  and  there  was  nothing 
to  fear  from  him. 

But  while  they  waited  for  the  boy, 
the  procession  passed  on,  and  the  occu- 
pant of  the  sedan  chair  slept.  Had 
Philip  been  sitting  upright,  he  would 
have  been  discovered;  but  he  had 
curled  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  chair, 
36 


~ 

IT 


¥ 


his  head  resting  on  the  cushioned  seat. 
The  steady  tread  of  the  bearers  caused 
a  gentle  rocking  motion;  and  so  light 
was  the  burden  within  that  they  carried 
the  chair  as  though  unconscious  of 
its  weight.  Its  place  in  the  proces- 
sion seemed  only  that  of  stage  para- 
phernalia, of  which  there  was  little 
enough  in  those  days. 

The  sudden  jolt,  as  the  men  came  to 
a  halt  at  the  Palace,  aroused  Philip  to 
life's  exciting  realities.  He  looked 
out  of  the  window  in  time  to  see  Shak- 
spere  embraced  by  a  young  nobleman 
of  great  beauty  and  elegance.  Philip 
felt  a  pang  of  envy  as  he  recognized 
in  him  Henry  Wriothsley,  the  Earl  of 
Southampton,  who  was  the  most 
petted  and  admired  youth  of  his  time 
and  Shakspere's  devoted  friend  as  well. 

A  moment  later,  Shakspere  bade 
adieu  to  his  admirer,  and  hastened  to 
see  how  it  fared  with  his  boy  in  the 
sedan  chair. 

37 


c± 


"Art  more  thyself,  my  Philip?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,  the  drink  has  made  me  as 
strong  as  a  lion,  and  the  sleep  was  even 
better — it  has  given  back  my  wits." 

"Thank  God  for  that!  My  friend 
the  Earl  of  Southampton  is  like  to  lose 
his  wits.  I  wonder  if  I  could  win  them 
back  to  him  so  easily!" 

"What  ails  him?  So  fair  and  rich 
and  noble!  Gifted,  too,  is  he  not?" 

"Yes,  yes,  you  speak  as  though  you 
knew  him!  He  is  all  that  you  say,  and 
more.  But  he  was  never  made  for  the 
Court;  his  nature  is  too  frank  and 
open,  his  temper  too  quick;  his  im- 
pulses are  too  generous,  and  his  heart 
is  too  affectionate.  All  the  qualities 
that  make  him  adorable,  at  the  same 
time,  combine  to  undo  him.  It  is  said 
the  Queen  mothers  him  with  a  patience 
to  make  the  world  marvel ;  but  even  so, 
he  leaves  her  presence  often  enough  in 
disgrace." 

38 


i:®: 


OT  LONDON 


"They  are  having  a  hard  time  to 
marry  him.  Two  years  ago,  they 
picked  out  a  wife,  cousin  to  Lord  Bur- 
leigh,  but  his  Grace  of  Southampton 
refused  to  consent  to  the  banns.  Last 
year,  he  gave  unwilling  assent  when 
Lady  Betty  Manners  was  proposed, 
but  lo!  my  Lady  would  have  none  of 
him!  'In  sooth,  he  is  too  light  a  weight 
for  me/  says  she,  but  she  knows  well 
that  my  Lord  prefers  a  brunette.  He 
will  love  you,  Philip." 

"Now  heaven  forbid!"  exclaimed 
Philip.  "I  should  not  wish  to  be  your 
rival,  and  as  Juliet  I  shall  not  be  a  bru- 
nette. More's  the  pity!  for  my  sister 
might  have  given  me  her  braids." 

Lord  Hunsdon's  proteges  were  pro- 
vided with  a  large  room  near  the  grand 
chamber  in  which  the  play  was  to  be 
performed,  but  my  Lord  had  not 
thought  it  necessary  to  tell  them  at 
what  hour  they  would  be  called  upon. 
The  jousts  in  the  tilt  yard  were  under 
39 


way  with  every  likelihood  of  lasting 
through  the  afternoon;  and  the  pros- 
pect would  have  been  dull  enough  for 
the  players,  had  not  word  come  from 
the  Earl  of  Southampton  that  one  of 
his  tents  was  at  their  disposal,  with  suf- 
ficient space  for  them  all  to  watch  the 
magnificent  spectacle. 

The  tournament  in  the  sixteenth 
century  had  lost  the  excitement  of  the 
tourneys  of  medieval  times.  It  had 
developed  into  a  more  formal  and  less 
warlike  exhibition,  and  offered  a  pe- 
culiarly fortunate  occasion  for  display- 
ing the  splendor  in  which  the  Court 
delighted.  Instead  of  the  heavy  iron 
mail  of  previous  years,  there  was  worn 
light  body  armor  of  glittering  gold 
and  silver  richly  damascened,  or  of 
steel  chain  as  fine  as  serpent's  scales. 
Horses,  richly  caparisoned,  seemed  not 
less  proud  than  their  knightly  riders. 
Around  the  lists  were  bright  silk  tents 
in  all  manner  of  oriental  colors.  In 
40 


front  of  the  different  tents  hung  the 
arms  and  banners  of  the  contestants. 

The  Court  occupied  a  canopied  pa- 
vilion at  the  head  of  the  tilt  yard,  with 
the  Queen's  throne  in  the  centre.  She 
was  the  jewel  for  which  the  rest  of  the 
exhibition  was  but  the  chosen  setting. 

The  actors  had  just  taken  their 
places,  when  Shakspere  was  called 
aside  to  speak  with  Lady  Southamp- 
ton. She  sat  under  the  silken  canopies 
at  some  distance  to  the  left  of  the 
Queen,  who  had  no  special  fondness 
for  her.  Still  a  young  woman,  she  re- 
tained decided  traces  of  beauty,  though 
the  refinement  of  form  and  feature 
that  characterized  her  son  were  now 
lacking  in  her. 

She  held  out  her  hand  very  gracious- 
ly at  Master  Will's  approach.  He 
kissed  it,  and  she  murmured  hastily : 

"I  have  a  little  commission  for  you, 
Master  Shakspere — a  sonnet  on  the 
advantages  of  early  marriage.  Some- 

41 


in    your    choicest    vein!    You 
my  meaning — you  know  my 


thing 
guess 
son!" 

"I  am  my  Lord's  devoted  slave;  and 
he,  his  mother's  mirror!  In  his  face, 
you  behold  the  lovely  April  of  your 
youth.  Your  meaning  is  that  in  his 
prime  he,  too,  should  have  such  a  glass 
to  look  upon. 

"Ah,  yes!  That  is  better  than  I  can 
say  it.  Go  tell  the  Earl  in  a  gentle 
sonnet,  Master  Shakspere,  a  sonnet 
that  he  will  show  in  his  pride  to  the 
young  lords  that  know  him  best!  And 
so  even  the  ladies  shall  hear  of  it." 

"Should  I  refer  to  Betty  Manners 
— I  mean  to  better  manners,  Madame? 
More  consideration  from  my  Lord  to 
a  certain  Lady?" 

"Better  manners  will  do  well  for 
your  own  study,  Sir  Impudence,  as 
well  as  for  my  son!"  responded  the 
Countess,  her  gorgeous  shoulders  shak- 
ing with  laughter. 

42 


"But  I  pardon  the  slip.  Leave  that 
Lady  out  of  your  sonnet.  No  woman 
shall  have  the  chance  to  refuse  his 
Lordship  twice." 

"Go  now,  you  have  upset  my  sedate- 
ness  already.  Lord,  sir!  I  would  we 
had  a  few  tongues  like  yours  at  Court. 
But  no!  Life  would  be  too  vivacious. 
Your  visits  are  frequent  enough,  in  all 
conscience." 

"Yes,  Madame,  but  always  desired. 
For  they  depend  upon  the  demand  for 
them,  and  cease  when  that  ceases." 

"In  so  much,  you  have  the  best  of 
us,"  she  admitted.  "Many  of  us  re- 
main, perforce,  unwilling  guests  of  an 
uncertain  hostess." 

The  last  was  whispered  behind  her 
fan. 

"You  have  my  commission,"  she  con- 
tinued, dismissing  him  with  a  nod  and 
a  smile. 

The  young  actor  bowed  and  with- 
drew. His  bearing  was  graceful,  but 

43 


O  LONDON 


proud,  with  a  consciousness  of  power 
that  was  not  unpleasing. 

"Were  it  not  for  that  mountebank's 
cloak  and  feather,  one  might  take  him 
for  a  Prince!"  exclaimed  a  lady  at  the 
side  of  the  Countess. 

"Proud  he  is,  and  proud  he  may  well 
be !  A  young  Lucifer,"  asserted  Lady 
Southampton  with  some  asperity. 
"Pray,  were  you  not  at  Court  when  he 
called  himself  'Cousin'  to  our  Queen?" 

"What  jest  is  this?"  queried  Mis- 
tress Vernon,  quite  scandalized. 

"Well,  it  was  a  jest,  but  so  cleverly 
put !  I  laugh  now  to  think  of  it. 

"Her  Majesty  was  sitting  in  front 
of  the  stage,  and  Master  Will  Shak- 
spere  was  taking  the  part  of  the  King 
about  to  lead  the  army  to  battle.  Oh, 
he  was  so  grand !  One's  hair  fairly  rose 
on  end!  We  were  all  wrought  up  to  a 
frenzy  of  excitement,  when  her  Maj- 
esty— we  know  her  love  of  fun — 
44 


O' 


leaned  forward  and  dropped  a  glove 

rc®-1' 

m 

,. 

Z2 

at  his  feet. 

r 
cZl 

$P 

"Such  an  interruption!  you  will  say, 

« 

for  he  must  needs  stop  playing  the 

King  to  play  the  page,  and  kneel  to 

return  the  token  with  stammering  and 

confusion!     Oh,  no,  not  at  all!     My 

young  Master  proceeds  as  King  : 

"  'But  though  bent  upon  this  high  em- 

bassy, 

First    stoop    we   to    pick    up    our 

Cousin's  glove!' 

"  'Our  Cousin's  glove/  mind  you! 

With  that,  he  hands  it  to  her  bowing, 

and  goes  on  with  his  lines." 

"God  ha'  mercy!  And  what  said  the 

Queen?" 

"She  smiled  at  him  and  whispered, 

'Faith,  Coz,  I  would  my  tongue  were 

as  quick  as  thine/  " 

The     Countess     of     Southampton 

paused,  well  satisfied  with  the  impres- 

45 

sion  made.  She  had  chosen  this  as 
an  opportunity  to  force  Mistress  Ver- 
non  to  believe  something  that  she  was 
anxious  to  have  her  believe,  which  was 
that  the  mother  of  the  Earl  of  South- 
ampton selected  his  friends.  One 
whom  she  would  never  select  or  ap- 
prove was  this  same  beautiful  woman 
sitting  next  to  her,  whose  dark  eyes 
were  continually  seeking,  hungrily 
seeking,  the  young  Earl  as  he  rode,  the 
fairest  knight  in  that  gay  cavalcade. 

Lady  Southampton  watched  her 
from  time  to  time  as  a  cat  watches  a 
mouse. 

"Ah,  no!"  she  exclaimed  to  herself, 
with  inward  satisfaction.  "You  will 
not  have  a  chance  at  him  here,  beside 
his  mother.  I  am  near  you,  young 
mistress,  not  because  I  love  you — far 
from  it!" 


46 


In  which  Philip  objects 

HAKSPERE     returned 
to  find  his  companions  en- 
gaged in  a  heated  discus- 
sion with  one  of  the  retainers 
of  the  Earl  of  Bedford  That 
young  Lord,  in  imitation  of 
his  friend,  Southampton,  or  perhaps 


"(5rrat  princes'  fatoorites  tbrtr  fair  Icaurs  spreafc 
38 at  30  t|)c  mart  50  la  at  tijc  sun's  rpc." 

Bonnet  XX"F. 


inspired  by  his  gifted  wife,  had  decided 
to  become  a  patron  of  the  arts.  But 
failing  to  put  much  wit  into  the  mat- 
ter, perhaps  having  little  to  spare,  he 
had  picked  out  an  unlikely  protege  in 
the  person  of  Philip,  whose  only  desire 
at  this  time  was  to  be  let  alone. 

Burbage  was  talking,  while  Philip, 
who  had  backed  into  a  corner  of  the 
tent,  seemed  about  to  edge  his  way 
through  the  silken  wall  behind  him. 
Shakspere  stood  an  amused  listener. 

"To  the  gracious  Earl,  many 
thanks!  His  favor  shall  be  accepted 
later  on,  but  our  friend  here,  our  lad  of 
the  pretty  face,  has  no  disposition  for 
gayety.  He  is  already  over-awed  at 
the  prospect  of  appearing  before  her 
Majesty.  So  with  our  humblest 

"I  was  to  speak  to  the  lad!"  inter- 
rupted the  attendant,  surlily.  "As  yet 
I  have  had  no  word  with  him!" 

"Nor  can  have,"  said  Shakspere. 
"Our  comrade  is  ill.  We  fear  he  may 
48 

JU 


be  unable  to  perform  his  duty  to  her 
Majesty,  and  I  have  been  ordered  by 
Lord  Hunsdon  to  keep  a  strict  watch 
upon  him." 

"A  warm  couch  in  my  Lordship's 
apartments  would  give  him  more  com- 
fort than  he  will  find  with  Hunsdon's 
men.  But  perhaps  you  players  have 
not  been  told  that  the  performance  is 
delayed  until  to-morrow?" 

"We  have  not  been  so  informed," 
admitted  Shakspere,  "but  I  supposed 
as  much.  What  say  you,  Philip? 
There  is  honor  for  you  in  this  most 
kind  invitation,  and  better  cheer  than 
you  will  find  with  us." 

Thus  addressed,  Philip  stepped  for- 
ward with  an  air  of  desperation. 

"Pray  say  to  his  Lordship,  the  Earl 
of  Bedford,  that  I  am  little  used  to 
gentle  company,  having  only  lately 
left  the  Cathedral  Choir  to  join  the 
players.  I  watched  my  Lord  in  the 
lists  to-day  with  great  admiration,  but 
49 


9 


such  splendor  affrights  me.  I  should 
not  dare  to  approach  the  moon,  nor  one 
of  the  stars — nor  his  Lordship. 

"Say  further  that  if  my  performance 
on  the  morrow  merit  a  word  of  com- 
mendation from  my  Lord,  I  shall 
count  it  a  great  honor  to  be  allowed — " 
here  the  boy  blushed,  and  stam- 
mered with  a  modesty  that  became  him 
well— "to  kiss  his  hand!" 

The  man  withdrew,  grinning  and 
flattered,  and  the  group  of  actors  sur- 
veyed Philip  with  some  show  of  pride. 

"By  my  soul,  you  have  a  ready 
tongue!"  commented  Burbage,  ap- 
provingly. "But  why  not  follow  the 
example  Will  sets  and  win  some  good 
of  these  gay  folk?  The  fellow  spoke 
truly,  you  would  have  been  well  enter- 
tained." 

"Too  well!"  interrupted  Shakspere. 
"He  would  have  been  called  upon  to 
spend  half  the  night  amusing  his  Lord- 
ship ;  and  we  should  have  found  him  fit 
50 


LONDON 


for  nothing  but  his  bed  on  the  mor- 
row." 

"Ah,  too  true !  You  speak  from  bit- 
ter experience,"  said  Richard  Burbage, 
tauntingly. 

Shakspere  joined  in  the  laugh  that 
followed. 

"I  speak  not  of  my  patron,"  he  re- 
torted, "but  of  his  imitators!" 

The  bugles  now  sounded  the  close 
of  the  tournament,  and  the  Court  ad- 
journed from  the  tilt  yard  to  prepare 
for  the  banqueting  hall.  Queen  Eliz- 
abeth's maids  were  divided  as  to  who 
had  carried  off  the  honors  of  the  day, 
and  the  merits  of  the  different  contest- 
ants were  long  discussed.  I  think  we 
may  accept  the  judgments  of  Mistress 
Vernon  and  of  Master  Shakspere  in 
favor  of  Southampton.  They  might 
have  been  biased  by  their  affections, 
but  the  poet,  George  Peele,  who  de- 
scribed the  tournament  in  blank  verse, 
gives  the  same  verdict  in  favor  of  the 
51 


PLAYERS 
O' LONDON 


Earl,  "so  valiant  in  arms — gentle  and 
debonair." 

The  actors  continued  their  discussion 
as  they  followed  the  gay  multitude 
back  to  the  Palace. 

"I,"  said  Philip,  "have  not  the  slight- 
est notion  of  staying  in  this  palace  over 
night.  The  play  should  have  come  off 
at  three  o'clock.  It  is  now  sundown, 
and  where  is  any  sign  that  we  are 
needed  here  ?  My  good  sister  will  think 
me  dead,  an  I  fail  to  come  home.  So 
I  must  go,  sirs,  and  will  return  to-mor- 
row in  better  spirits  than  to-day." 

"Indeed!"  spoke  up  Richard  Bur- 
bage.  "Methinks  I  see  you  skipping 
gaily  home  to  be  caught  like  a  little 
mouse  in  some  trap  prepared  by  our 
friends  of  The  Curtain!  And  as  for 
being  in  better  spirits,  that  is  assured. 
There  is  no  stinting  the  liquor  for 
Lord  Hunsdon's  men.  We  are  due 
to  have  a  fine  feast  to-night,  eh,  Mas- 
ter Will?" 

52 


"What  odds  to  him?"  interrupted 
Sly.  "He  goes  to  his  lover,  Lord 
Southampton.  We  shall  see  nothing 
more  of  him." 

"And  I  am  invited  to  pass  my  time 
with  some  ladies,  so  a  happy  evening  is 
assured  to  me,"  confided  Burbage. 

Philip  spoke  again  in  a  sharp,  con- 
strained tone:  "I  have  said,  good 
friends,  I  spend  the  night  at  home." 
He  looked  around  with  an  air  of  con- 
fidence that  faded  away  under  the 
amused,  contemptuous  glances  of  his 
fellows. 

"The  child  has  said,"  mimicked  Sly, 
"'he  spends  the  night  at  home!'"  A 
spot  of  color  glowed  in  each  pale  cheek 
as  the  boy  opened  his  mouth  to  speak, 
but  a  shout  of  laughter  drowned  his 
words. 

"Enough    of    folly!"    cried    Will 

Shakspere,  angrily.   "The  boy's  fever 

is  coming  on  again.     Leave  him  to  me ! 

I  will  guard  him  safely  through  the 

53 


night.  Pray,  how  could  he  sleep  in 
such  a  company?  There's  not  a  man 
of  you  but  wakes  the  midnight  with  his 
snores !" 

"Fever  does  grow  worse  at  night," 
admitted  Burbage,  "but  I  promised 
fair  Phyllis  to  keep  him  in  sight.  If 
you  carry  him  off,  who  will  absolve 
me?" 

"I  will!"  put  in  Philip  eagerly,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand  to  Will,  who  tucked 
it  under  his  arm.  Then  the  two 
whisked  out  of  sight  before  their  com- 
rades could  say  them  nay. 


a 


VI 

In  which  Shakspere  plays  Mentor 

HROUGH    long     corri- 
dors, up  several  flights  of 
stairs  and  down  other  flights, 
Shakspere  led  his  companion, 
finally   entering   a    suite   of 
apartments     beautiful     be- 
yond his  little  friend's  imaginings.   As 


'<0entle  tf>cm  art,  anU  therefore  to  be  toon; 

•iSrauteoue  tbou  art,  therefore  to  aBsailrt." 

Sonnet  XLI. 


one  at  home  and  long  familiar  with 
such  luxurious  surroundings,  he  select- 
ed a  low  couch  and  bade  the  boy  rest 
there.  Disappearing  then  for  a  few 
minutes,  he  returned  mysteriously  with 
a  bowl  of  excellent  gruel,  which  he  con- 
fessed to  having  stolen  from  a  maid  on 
the  way  to  her  mistress. 

"Now,  Philip,  when  you  have  drunk 
this,  it  will  be  time  for  your  confes- 
sions !"  he  said,  dropping  his  gay,  care- 
less manner  and  looking  full  at  his 
companion.  The  brown  eyes  quailed 
before  the  searching  glance  of  the  blue 
ones.  Tenderly,  anxiously,  the  older 
man  regarded  the  younger. 

"Philip,  you  are  not  the  lad  I  knew 
a  month  ago.  No  fever  of  a  few  hours 
has  so  changed  you.  Look,  child !  I  see 
a  troubled  mind  behind  those  eyes !" 

"No,  no!"  Philip  protested;  but  his 
face  flushed  guiltily  enough. 

"Confess,  you  have  done  something 
56 


of  which  you  are  ashamed! 
distressed!" 

Philip  shook  his  head,  but  the  other 
continued : 

"I  read  you  like  an  open  page.  Seek 
not  to  deceive  me!  You  have  cast  my 
counsels  to  the  winds.  Some  woman 
is  concerned  in  this  matter,  some  one 
twice  your  years,  of  course,  and  en- 
vious of  your  beauty  and  your  youth. 
Now,  love,  I  know  the  very  lady!  I 
knew  when  she  sent  for  you  after  last 
week's  rehearsal  at  The  Rose." 

Philip,  who  was  shaking  convulsive- 
ly, now  sat  up,  rosy,  merry,  and  laugh- 
ing peals  of  silver  laughter  that  rip- 
pled and  echoed  afar. 

"Hush,  rascal!"  exclaimed  Shak- 
spere,  holding  up  a  warning  finger. 
"Remember  where  you  are!  What 
would  passers-by  in  the  corridor  think? 
And  the  Earl  is  not  even  holding  an  in- 
nocent carousal!  It  is  easy  for  you  to 
57 


fcK€  PIAVCRS 
O  CONDON 


laugh,  but  I  feel  little  like  it.  Tell  me, 
are  you  betrothed?" 

"Well,  I  hardly  know,"  answered 
Philip  dubiously,  with  lurking  mis- 
chief in  his  eyes. 

"To  whom?"  exclaimed  his  inquis- 
itor shortly. 

Philip  began  to  show  signs  of  con- 
fusion. 

"I  cannot  very  well  explain, 
but— 

"Come,  come,  sir!  I  grow  impa- 
tient." 

Perhaps  Philip  feared  that  the  truth 
would  be  shaken  out  of  him,  for  he 
answered  seriously: 

"To  one  older  than  I,  as  you  have 
said;  a  Puritan,  not  beautiful,  and  vio- 
lently opposed  to  the  players." 

"Now  God  forbid!  That  is  far 
worse  than  I  thought!  You  must  be 
jesting;  you  would  not  dare  to  tell  me 
this,  after  such  pains  as  I  have  taken 
with  you!  Why,  boy,  you  are  not 
58 


O'LONbON 


twenty  yet!  I  have  planned  that  we 
should  work  together  for  years,  and 
that  I  should  draw  real  inspiration 
from  you!  Oh,  what  a  time  youth  is! 
With  the  long  future  before  us,  we  lay 
up  enough  of  misery  to  last  us  the  rest 
of  our  lives." 

Philip  was  by  this  time  somewhat 
disconcerted,  and  welcomed  with  re- 
lief the  sound  of  an  opening  door. 

The  Earl  of  Southampton  entered 
at  the  farthest  end  of  the  room.  He 
was  attired  elaborately  and  yet  with 
faultless  taste.  His  doublet  was  of 
pale  blue  velvet,  his  knee  breeches  were 
of  white  satin,  and  his  leather  chest- 
piece  was  richly  embroidered  in  silver. 
Further  decorations  consisted  of  a 
broad  lace  collar,  an  embroidered 
sword-belt,  and  garters  trimmed  with 
gold  thread  and  silk  bows.  But  noth- 
ing in  his  raiment  was  so  astonishing  as 
the  thick  red  gold  curls  that  hung  in 
symmetrical  profusion  about  his  shoul- 
59 


\\ 


ders.  His  face  was  intelligent  and  af- 
fable, lovable  in  fact. 

At  sight  of  him,  Shakspere  sprang 
up  joyfully. 

"Two  loves  have  I,  of  comfort  and 
despair!"  he  exclaimed.  "Come,  you, 
my  good  angel,  help  me  to  decide 
whether  this  other  be  good  or  bad. 
You  have  seen  him  before,  and  as  one 
unprejudiced  by  affection  shall  judge 
him." 

"Why  is  not  this  the  Lady  Juliet, 
though  not  now  in  her  right  attire? 
Who  speaks  of  bad  angels  in  such  fair 
company?" 

"I  know  not  who  would  be  so  bold 
save  Master  Shakspere,"  said  Philip, 
looking  in  unconcealed  admiration  at 
the  Earl,  who  in  turn  surveyed  him 
from  head  to  foot,  with  an  amused 
smile. 

"Master  Condell  is  here  at  some  risk 
of  offending  my  Lord  of  Bedford. 
60 


o'lxxrsflDorsr 


My  Lord  sought  him  as  a  guest  for  the 
night,"  Shakspere  informed  the  Earl. 

"Ah,  Shakspere,  reader  of  men,  your 
words  must  have  slipped  out,  all  un- 
consciously. You  do  not  need  to  play 
upon  me  or  to  flatter  my  vanity. 
Your  friends  are  mine,  and  as  your 
friends  I  welcome  them.  I  refuse  to 
take  any  satisfaction  in  piquing  Bed- 
ford." Here  he  laughed  with  a 
heartiness  that  belied  his  words. 

Philip's  eyes  had  been  fixed  upon 
Southampton's  hair,  and  now  with  a 
curiosity  he  could  no  longer  restrain, 
he  reached  forward  and  touched  one  of 
the  smooth,  glossy  curls  that  lay  like  a 
roll  of  burnished  copper. 

"Oh,  forgive  me,  my  Lord,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "but  are  they  really  yours?" 

"Are  these  your  Court  manners?" 
asked  the  Earl,  good-naturedly.  "Be- 
ware of  asking  a  like  question  at  sight 
of  the  Queen's  periwig." 

"But  of  this  gold  we  may  speak 
61 


I 


freely,"  said  Shakspere.  "The  metal 
rings  true !  That  is,  if  I  wring  a  lock, 
my  Lord  will  cry  out.  Yet  this  is  not 
a  topic  that  befits  conversation,  being 
better  left  to  the  field  of  verse.  How- 
ever, my  Lord,  I  know  that  Philip  is 
glad  of  anything  that  keeps  me  from 
the  real  subject  at  hand.  I  wish  hinj 
to  talk  of  himself." 

Again  Southampton's  eyes  twin- 
kled. "O  ho !  And  what  has  that  way- 
ward elf  been  doing?" 

"Enough !"  answered  Shakspere  dis- 
consolately. "He  is  an  example  to 
you,  and  you  shall  be  one  to  him." 

"He  is  just  beginning  to  be  a  credit 
to  me.  Oh,  the  pains  I  have  taken 
with  the  rascal!  Did  he  not  enter  our 
company  straight  from  the  Cathedral 
Choir  without  the  slightest  knowledge 
of  our  art,  beyond  what  can  be  gained 
in  ranting  the  part  of  Noah's  Wyfie  in 
the  Miracle  Plays?  And  now,  after  all 
my  laboring  for  him  and  belaboring  of 
62 


- 


him,  just  as  he  is  beginning  to  show 
real  talent,  I  learn  that  he  has  yoked 
himself  to  a  Puritan  spinster  twice  his 
age! 

"Heard  you  ever  such  madness,  my 
Lord  of  Southampton?  No!  for  it  is 
only  equaled  by  your  own!  You,  who 
are  a  stately  tree  and  in  whom  rests  the 
future  of  your  race,  refuse  to  see  the 
duty  you  owe  to  yourself  and  to  the 
mother  who  bore  you." 

"Shake  us  together,  and  we  shall 
prove  a  perfect  pair,  Will,"  laughed 
the  Earl. 

"No,  that  is  not  what  I  purpose.  I 
have  a  commission  to  put  your  f  ailings 
into  rhyme." 

"Spare  me,  dear  poet!  Riding  has 
made  my  eyes  heavy  with  sleep.  I 
envy  you,  who  can  to  bed  when  you 
choose,  while  I  must  tread  a  measure 
in  the  dance.  I  shall  return  ready  to 
die  of  fatigue;  and  faith!  I  have  no 
wish  to  find  you  wide-eyed  and  lost  in 
63 


O  LONDON 


verse.  Prepare  me  no  discourses,  an 
you  love  me!" 

"Come,  let  us  eat!  A  little  supper  is 
laid  in  the  adjoining  chamber,  and  I 
must  snatch  at  something,  for  I  sup 
with  the  Queen  in  a  half  hour's  time, 
and  I  never  willingly  go  hungry  to  a 
dinner  of  state." 

"My  Lord  keeps  his  tongue  to  serve 
his  brains  and  not  his  stomach,"  com- 
mented Shakspere,  approvingly.  "A 
dinner  with  her  Majesty  is  a  good  time 
to  listen  and  to  talk.  The  man  who 
forgets  himself  and  stops  to  eat  wastes 
a  good  opportunity." 

"Will  does  me  more  than  justice, 
as  usual,"  said  the  Earl  to  Philip. 
"The  real  truth  is  that  the  waits  are  in- 
terminably long,  and  I  become  raven- 
ous. Sometimes,  the  Queen  keeps  us 
an  hour  by  deciding  to  change  her 
dress  again  at  the  last  moment.  I 
have  no  wish  to  die  of  starvation  before 
64 


PLAYERS 
O' LONDON 


'the  future  of  my  line'  is  provided  for, 
so  I  go  fortified." 

He  led  them  into  the  anteroom 
where  a  small  table  was  invitingly 
spread.  What  a  merry  repast  fol- 
lowed !  Philip,  as  an  invalid,  received 
only  the  choicest  morsels.  He  was  al- 
lowed to  eat  but  the  breast  and  liver  of 
his  bird,  though  its  fat  little  drum- 
sticks were  a  temptation  hard  to  re- 
sist. Devonshire  cream  and  rennet 
custards  were  forced  upon  him,  but  the 
pasties  and  tarts  were  kept  well  out  of 
his  reach. 

Shakspere  was  delighted  to  find  that 
his  little  favorite  was  not  uncongenial 
to  his  young  patron.  Indeed,  Philip 
lent  a  strange  charm  to  the  occasion, 
which  both  of  the  others  realized  but 
could  not  define.  It  was  a  pleasure  to 
watch  the  play  of  his  features,  where 
emotions  sought  to  express  rather  than 
to  conceal  their  existence.  His  grace- 
ful movements  had  a  fascination  all 
65 


if  ON  DOTS 


their  own.  His  enjoyment  was  evi- 
dent, as  was  also  an  occasional  timidity 
or  embarrassment  that  bordered  on 
fear. 

From  time  to  time,  he  raised  his  eyes 
with  an  expression  of  wonder  at  being 
where  he  was. 

"I  refused  to  visit  the  moon  or  one 
of  the  stars  at  Lord  Bedford's  re- 
quest," he  said,  "and  you,  Will  Shak- 
spere,  have  brought  me  straight  to  the 
sun,  and  I  am  not  burned — though  a 
little  bit  afraid." 


66 


VII 

In  which  a  woman  is  discovered 

ORD      SOUTHAMP- 

TON left  hurriedly  in 
reply  to  his  valet's  announce- 
ment that  the  procession  was 
'forming  for  the  dining  hall. 
Shakspere  and  Philip  had 
places  provided  for  them  with  Lord 


are  pan 


te  pottr  BttbatatueeT 
mate, 

milliona  of  strange  s&afcotos  an  pott  tcnfc? 

Sonnet  L1II. 


Hunsdon's  retinue,  but  they  were  glad 
to  forego  a  long,  tiresome,  formal  meal 
where  they  would  be  among  the  least. 
For  gifted  as  were  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain's Players — talented,  handsome 
men  all  of  them — they  were  of  a  calling 
deemed  so  low  that,  even  in  its  success- 
ful practice,  there  was  little  cause  for 
pride;  but  they  were  serving  as  the 
mirror  of  their  times,  and  not  for  long 
could  Lords  and  Ladies  despise  their 
own  likenesses. 

"Philip,"  said  Shakspere,  when  they 
were  alone,  "do  you  wish  to  go  over 
your  part  again?" 

Philip  looked  up  in  dismay. 

"Are  you  not  satisfied  with  me?"  he 
exclaimed.  "Must  I  do  better  than  I 
did?  Was  there  any  fault  in  the 
lines?" 

"No,  no!  But  can  you  do  as  well  to- 
morrow?" 

"Why  not,  if  I  go  home  and  sleep 
68 


OT 


and  am  stronger  to-morrow  than 
to-day?" 

"Go  home!  Why  speak  of  that? 
You  are  invited  here  for  the  night." 

"Now  this  is  a  mistake!"  cried 
Philip,  springing  up,  angrily. 

"I  came  here  freely,  and  will  as  free- 
ly return  to-morrow;  but  stay  here  I 
shall  not!" 

"Came  here  freely?  Why,  you  were 
carried  here  locked  in  a  chair!" 

"Burbage  promised  my  sister!" 
cried  Philip,  desperately. 

"What  did  he  promise  her?  To  take 
good  care  of  you,  but  surely  not  to  let 
you  run  the  streets  by  night !  Such  a 
mad  boy  as  you  are!  Have  you  never 
slept  a  night  away  from  home?" 

"No,"  answered  Philip,  "and  I  will 
not  now."  So  saying  he  made  a  dash 
for  the  door,  and  was  in  the  corridor 
before  Shakspere  realized  what  he  was 
about. 

Ah,  but  Whitehall  was  a  labyrinth! 
69 


O' LONDON 


Shakspere  paused  to  listen  to  the  di- 
rection of  the  fleeing  steps,  then  he 
tripped  noiselessly  and  deliberately 
after,  first  in  the  direction  of  the  dining 
hall.  But  Philip  would  not  follow 
such  a  lead  long;  no,  he  would  fear  to 
encounter  some  guest  returning  from 
the  feast.  Shakspere  came  to  a  dimly 
lighted  hallway.  There  were  stairs 
just  beyond.  At  the  foot  lay  some- 
thing, someone,  all  in  a  heap!  Philip 
well  punished! — He  had  missed  his 
footing! 

Shakspere  stooped  and  lifted  him  in 
his  arms. 

"Naughty  boy,"  he  said,  "what  use 
in  trying  to  run  away?  We  are  all 
shut  up  in  the  same  trap  for  a  few 
days,  courtiers,  servants,  slaves  and 
mice.  Have  a  good  time  in  the  trap. 
It's  not  a  bad  place  so  long  as  no  one 
is  trying  to  kill  you." 

For  all  answer,  the  slender  creature 
in  his  arms  began  to  sob  bitterly.  The 
70 


2 


fcft€  "PLAVCRS 
O  LONDON 


face  that  rested  on  his  shoulder  and 
touched  his  cheek  as  he  mounted  the 
steps,  was  soft  as  a  damask  rose;  and 
from  the  dark  tresses  came  the  per- 
fume that  is  only  of  violets  or  of  a 
woman's  hair. 

Shakspere  knew  that  he  carried  a 
woman  in  his  arms.  It  was  the  Philip 
he  was  seeking,  but  it  was  not  the 
Philip  of  a  month  ago.  For  a  mo- 
ment, he  was  mystified,  then  the  simple 
explanation  flashed  through  his  mind: 
Philip  was  dangerously  ill.  Rather 
than  allow  him  to  be  disturbed  and  ex- 
cited by  the  players,  Phyllis,  his  twin 
sister,  had  taken  his  place,  expecting 
to  accomplish  his  appointed  task  in  the 
course  of  the  day.  Now,  confused 
and  bewildered  at  the  turn  of  affairs, 
she  was  utterly  at  a  loss  and  lay  weep- 
ing, helpless  and  hopeless. 

A  wave  of  pity  and  tenderness 
swept  over  the  man,  but  this  was 
speedily  followed  by  wonder  and  ad- 
71 


I!®:) 

V 


O  CONDON 


miration  at  the  intelligence  with  which 
she  had  played  not  only  her  brother's 
part,  but  the  part  of  her  brother. 
Shakspere's  mind  embraced  all  the 
possible  outcomes  of  the  situation  with 
the  quickness  that  was  characteristic 
of  him.  If  he  should  help  her  to  leave 
the  Palace,  her  whole  escapade  would 
be  discovered.  If  he  should  insist  on 
her  carrying  out  her  intention,  and 
force  her  to  remain  Philip  to  the  end, 
perhaps  no  one  would  be  the  wiser ;  and 
his  play !  After  all,  what  was  of  more 
importance  than  his  play?  She  must, 
on  no  account,  be  allowed  to  escape. 
He  was  sorry  for  her,  but  she  must 
accomplish  her  undertaking.  She 
was  now  one  of  the  players,  a  puppet 
on  which  much  depended. 

As  he  looked  down  at  her,  the  closed 
eyelids  quivered,  then  opened  wide. 

"Don't  you  understand?"  she  said, 
tremulously.  "I  cannot  stay  here." 

He  veiled  the  kindness  that  might 
72 


unnerve  her.  A  word  of  sympathy 
never  stops  a  woman's  tears;  it  opens 
the  floodgates. 

"I  understand  that  any  wilfulness 
on  your  part  would  disgrace  us  all!" 
he  said.  His  mind  was  made  up:  he 
had  decided  not  to  acknowledge  his 
discovery. 

But  Phyllis  had  caught  that  first 
glance  of  surprise,  and  she  knew  that 
he  had  guessed  her  secret. 

Once  more  they  entered  South- 
ampton's apartments.  Phyllis  slipped 
to  her  feet,  but  Shakspere  kept  one  of 
her  hands  firmly  grasped  in  his,  as 
though  fearing  she  would  again  try 
to  escape. 

"Now,  Philip,"  he  said,  drawing  her 
to  a  door  at  the  right  of  the  one  by 
which  they  had  entered,  "here  is  the 
wardrobe  where  my  Lord's  garments 
hang:  this  little  room  has  but  one  door, 
which,  I  promise  you,  shall  not  be  dis- 
turbed. Get  you  in  here  and  sleep. 
73 


See!  I  shall  make  a  good  bed  for 
you,"  and  he  brought  robes  and  cush- 
ions from  one  of  the  couches. 

"Now  rest  in  peace,"  he  said.  "No 
one  shall  enter.  You  are  as  safe  as  in 
your  chamber  at  home,  and  I  am  your 
guard." 

"Wait!  wait  a  moment!"  cried  Phyl- 
lis, faintly.  "I  ought  not  to  have 
come." 

"You  did  well  to  come,"  said  Shak- 
spere,  decidedly,  "if  you  act  well  to- 
morrow. You  are  a  part  of  Art  now, 
Philip ;  we  marveled  at  you  to-day,  and 
yet  my  brightest  dream  is  of  a  time 
when  women  shall  join  us  in  our  work. 
The  day  may  be  not  far  off.  I  be- 
lieve it  has  dawned  already  in  France, 
where  ladies  are  more  daring  than 
here." 

He  spoke  kindly,  reassuringly. 
There  was  much  comfort  for  Phyllis 
in  his  words. 

Then,  just  as  he  would  have  done 
74 


to  Philip,  he  kissed  his  little  friend 
good-night;  and  the  matter-of-fact 
manner  of  his  kiss  made  her  wonder 
whether  he  really  knew  her,  after  all. 


75 


VIII 

In    which    friends    discuss    private 
affairs 

HAKSPERE  stepped 
from  the  wardrobe  and 
carefully  closed  the  door. 
Then  he  pulled  a  couch  in 
front  of  it,  and  seating  him- 
self comfortably,  prepared  in 


is  too  pattng  to  knoto  aljat  conscience 


to 


Sonnet  CLI. 


a  businesslike  way  to  carry  out  his 
commission  from  the  Countess  of 
Southampton. 

But  his  thoughts  of  his  "dear  Lord," 
"his  patron,"  "his  lover,"  did  not  flow 
with  their  wonted  freedom.  They 
were  interrupted  by  visions  of  the  dark 
lady  who  lay  sleeping  so  near.  The 
red-gold  curls  that  had  been  the  sun  of 
his  poetry  were  dimmed  in  the  shadow 
of  soft  black  tresses.  The  mystery 
concerning  Philip  had  taken  hold  of 
his  mind,  the  Philip  of  his  last  kiss, 
more  beautiful  than  the  sons  of  men. 

"What  is  your  substance,  whereof 
are  you  made,"  he  mused,  "that  mill- 
ions of  vague  shadows  on  you  tend?" 

Strange  words  to  address  to  a  well- 
known  friend !  He  was  writing  to  the 
Earl,  but  he  was  thinking  of  Phyllis. 

"Come,  come!"  he  exclaimed,  with 

an  indignant  shake  of  his  head,  "this 

is  no  love  sonnet !  It  has  nought  to  do 

with  shadows !    I  must  berate  the  Earl 

77 


JL 


O'LyONDON 


for  his  failure  to  make  a  suitable  mar- 
riage. I  must  find  subtile  and  con- 
vincing arguments,  and  they  must  be 
pleasing  as  well.  And  if  it  be  Phyllis 
who  is  sleeping  yonder,  she  is  Philip's 
sister  and  nothing  to  me!" 

Concentrating  his  mind  on  the  mat- 
ter that  had  been,  for  many  months, 
an  important  topic  on  all  tongues  at 
Court,  he  wrote  the  first  lines  of  the 
sonnet  that  the  Earl's  mother  had 
commanded, 

"From  fairest  creatures,  we  desire  in- 
crease 

That  thereby  beauty's  rose  may  never 
die." 

The  lines  pleased  him.  They  were 
flattering  and  instructive.  The  rest  of 
the  sonnet  was  ready  in  his  mind  and 
would  have  been  speedily  transcribed 
to  the  page,  but  the  very  slightest  of 
raps  on  the  door  caught  his  ear.  He 
78 


raised  his  head  and  listened  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  sound  was  repeated  more 
courageously.  He  hastened  to  the 
door,  and  opened  it. 

Elizabeth  Vernon  in  full  court  dress 
entered.  Without  the  slightest  effort 
to  hide  her  eagerness  and  anxiety,  she 
glanced  about  the  room.  She  hardly 
seemed  to  notice  Shakspere.  Her 
eyes  scanned  each  corner  and  finally 
rested  on  the  closet  door.  There  was 
a  desperate  look  on  her  beautiful  face. 

For  Shakspere,  the  situation  was 
most  embarrassing.  For  his  own 
sake,  for  Southampton's  sake — for  the 
sake  of  the  little  player,  the  lady  must 
be  got  away  and  quietly.  And  so  it 
was  for  her  own  sake  that  he  made  a 
plea. 

"My  Lady — I  entreat  you  tell  me 
how  I  may  be  of  service  to  you!" 
There  was  no  answer. 

"Lady  Betty —  Do  consider  that 
79 


you  imperil  your  reputation  by    re- 
maining here  with  me!" 

"My  reputation!"  she  burst  out  bit- 
terly— "I  have  none!  I  lost  it  here 
weeks  ago!  Where  else  shall  I  go  to 
seek  it?" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause. 

"The  Earl  is  not  here,"  said  Shak- 
spere. 

"No,  but  who  is  here?"  exclaimed 
the  lady  in  a  frenzy  of  jealousy. 
"Who  is  here?  I  heard  a  woman's 
voice  as  I  passed  on  my  way  to  the 
banquet.  I  did  not  need  to  feign  ill- 
ness— I  was  so  much  affected  that  her 
Majesty  took  pity  on  my  condition 
and  excused  me  from  further  attend- 
ance." 

"Mistress  Vernon,  I  am  happy  to  be 
able  to  relieve  your  mind  entirely!  You 
have  mistaken  a  player  for  a  possible 
rival!  Young  Condell  is  here;  it  was 
his  voice  that  you  heard." 

"I  do  not  believe  you,  Shakspere!  I 
80 


heard  the  voice   of   a   woman — of   a 
young  girl!" 

"Oh,  you  do  his  Lordship  cruel  in- 
justice!" exclaimed  Shakspere,  indig- 
nantly. 

"You  are  all  against  me!"  cried  the 
lady.  "You  are  against  me,  with  the 
rest.  All  against  me  because  I  trust 
him — because  I  love  him!  Jealous? 
Who  is  jealous?  I?  No!  The  Queen 
is  jealous!  His  mother  is  jealous!  You 
are  jealous!  I  do  not  need  to  be  jeal- 
ous while  I  have  his  love — but  can  I 
hold  it  in  the  face  of  all  the  plotting 
and  planning  that  is  going  on  to  de- 
prive me  of  it?  I  am  not  allowed  to 
have  a  word  with  him!  Not  even  a 
chance  to  defend  myself  against  the 
lies  they  pour  into  his  ears!  God 
knows  no  other  man  has  ever  found 
me  kind!" 

"I  know  nothing  of  these  matters," 
protested  the  poet.     "I  can  only  pray 
you  to  withdraw." 
81 


"Not  until  you  promise  not  to  join 
the  league  against  me !"  She  turned  to 
him  with  animation  and  hope.  "Prom- 
ise me  not  to  help  them!  They  are 
planning  to  turn  his  interest  elsewhere ! 
Even  Essex,  my  cousin,  will  do  noth- 
ing for  me,  fearing  to  lose  what  influ- 
ence he  has.  What  chance  have  I 
against  them  all — one  woman — rich  in 
his  love — without  it,  oh,  how  poor!" 
Her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Be  assured  that  I,  who  love  your 
lover,  will  never  join  a  conspiracy 
against  his  happiness — which  is  you!" 
He  opened  the  door,  but  the  lady 
caught  his  hand  and  held  it  while  she 
exclaimed : 

"If  you  have  the  feelings  of  a  man 
9$  well  as  the  mind  of  a  poet,  I  pray 
you  never  to  forget  that  kind  prom- 
ise— and  know  that  you  have  one 
friend  who  will  never  prove  ungrateful 
for  your  kindness  in  this  time  of  grief 
— for,  oh,  I  am  in  deep  distress — they 


talk  of  sending  the  Earl  to  Spain — 
with  Essex." 

"What  little  power  I  have  shall  be 
used  to  keep  my  Lord  at  home." 

"God  grant  it!"  The  lady  withdrew 
reluctantly,  and  the  poet,  giving  a  sigh 
of  relief,  returned  to  his  interrupted 
sonnet.  But  ever  and  anon  his  eyes 
roved  to  the  closet  door,  and  once  he 
muttered  aloud :  "Thank  heaven !" 

The  verses  were  ready  for  the  Earl 
some  time  before  his  return.  Shak- 
spere  was  anxious  to  prevent  any  ref- 
erence to  the  companion  left  with  him, 
for  he  knew  that,  under  such  peculiar 
circumstances,  it  would  be  impossible 
for  the  Earl  to  consider  the  situation 
with  due  seriousness.  And  so  well  ac- 
quainted was  the  young  Lord  with  all 
the  charms  of  the  opposite  sex  that 
Shakspere  knew  that  disguise  would 
not  long  be  successful. 

Perhaps  even  now  his  Lordship  had 
penetrated  the  secret!  But  the  night 
83 


LONDON 


was  wearing  on,  and  the  morrow  could 
not  come  too  soon. 

The  Earl  entered  shortly  after  mid- 
night. He  was  in  a  royal  good  hu- 
mor; his  eyes  were  dancing,  his 
cheeks  flushed;  but  his  words  belied  his 
looks. 

"Dear  Will,"  he  exclaimed,  "how 
the  hours  have  dragged!" 

"Not  where  you  have  been,"  retort- 
ed Shakspere.  "Nor  have  they 
dragged  here ;  for  you  have  been  in  my 
heart,  its  own  dear  company." 

"You  give  me  good  proof,  indeed!" 
said  the  Earl,  putting  out  his  hand  for 
the  lines  Shakspere  held  toward  him. 

"But  no!  Read  them  to  me  your- 
self, my  friend,  that  I  may  know 
whether  or  not  you  mean  every  word." 

"That  will  be  hard  to  tell,"  mused 
Shakspere. 

"I  write  them  at  your  mother's  re- 
quest; I  mean  them  for  you;  but  sel- 
fishly, dreading  to  lose  you,  I  hope 
84 


against  this  good  advice  for  my  own 
sake." 

"But  is  it  not  agreed  between  us  that 
your  muse  shall  not  be  forced?  Why 
write  to  me  'at  request'  ?" 

"My  muse  never  needs  forcing! 
Rather  I  hold  her  in  check.  Were  she 
given  free  rein,  she  would  run  you  to 
death,  and  you  would  be  weary  of  her 
and  of  me." 

"Who  knows  better  than  you  the 
value  of  your  verse?  You  fear  that  my 
attempts  to  pay  you  will  bankrupt  me! 
You  believe  in  your  'immortal  rhyme,' 
but  you  resent  making  it  in  any  way 
common." 

"Common — I,  a  jester  for  the 
crowd?  How  can  I  be  else  than  com- 
mon? Yet,  beloved  friend,  you  know 
that  there  are  depths  in  my  heart, 
which  are  not  for  the  multitude  to  find. 
Hid  safe  within  lies  my  best  self — 
yourself,  my  Lord,  who  have  freed  me 
from  the  bondage  of  poverty,  and 
85 


given    my    soul    breadth 
enough  for  song." 

"What  a  delight  it  has  been  to  me!" 
responded  Southampton. 

"Tell  me,  will  your  father  have 
much  difficulty  in  recovering  Asbies?" 
They  were  referring  to  the  beautiful 
old  home  of  Shakspere's  mother,  which 
had  been  mortgaged  and  estranged 
from  the  family  for  many  years.  It 
was  about  to  become  the  property  of 
the  creditors,  when  Shakspere  came  to 
his  father's  relief  with  a  round  sum 
near  two  thousand  pounds — a  wonder- 
ful amount  of  money  for  an  actor  in 
those  days.  The  gift  had  been 
pressed  upon  him  after  his  dedication 
of  Venus  and  Adonis  to  the  Earl  of 
Southampton.  The  exuberant  grati- 
tude of  Fortune's  young  favorite  was 
not  to  be  denied ;  and,  indeed,  the  Earl 
made  an  ideal  patron  and  donor. 

"There  will  be  no  difficulty,  because 
we  have  now  sufficient  means  to  avoid 
86 


difficulty.  The  title  is  not  clear,  but 
silver  pounds  will  straighten  it  out," 
Shakspere  replied. 

"But,  my  Lord,  we  are  straying 
from  the  point.  My  sonnet  here  is 
inspired  by  your  failings,  not  by  your 
virtues.  See — here  is  no  truckling!" 

He  read  the  sonnet  to  Southampton, 
who  listened  with  rapt  attention.  He 
enjoyed  the  lines  keenly.  He  was 
flattered,  and  at  the  same  time  touched, 
by  the  delicate  argument.  When  the 
reading  ceased,  he  turned  his  eyes  upon 
his  friend  with  a  delicious,  dreamy 
gaze. 

"A  duty,  yes !  A  pleasure  for  those 
who  could  take  it  lightly.  But  I,  with 
a  heart  so  tender  that  it  abides  not 
woman's  tears,  to  me  the  bondage 
seems  alarming.  To  give  up  all  wom- 
en for  one !  Now  I  have  my  choice. 
The  whole  field  lies  open,  and  I  sip 
the  sweets  where  I  will.  But  who 
would  think  of  shutting  up  a  roving 
87 


honey-bee  with  one  clover  blossom  for 
the  rest  of  his  days?" 

"The  husbands  of  our  time  are  al- 
lowed much  liberty,"  remarked  Shak- 
spere. 

Southampton  gave  him  a  mischiev- 
ous glance. 

"There  are  few  wives  like  Mistress 
Anne,"  he  said.  "Most  often,  the 
wives  who  allow  their  husbands  liberty 
claim  it  themselves;  and  that  I  would 
never  endure."  He  thought  for  a  few 
moments  in  silence,  and  then  sprang 
up  with  boyish  frankness. 

"Truth  to  tell,  I  have  already  fallen 
in  love,  Will!  That  prevents  any  pos- 
sible consideration  of  marriage." 

"Pray,  why?" 

"Surely  none  could  advise  me  to  be 
so  base  as  to  marry  one  woman  while 
every  thought  is  of  another!" 

"God  forbid!  But  why  not  marry 
'the  other'?" 

"Ah,  if  I  only  could!   But  no,    I 


should  never  get  consent.  And 
though  she  is  adorable,  I  have  never 
even  thought  of  marriage  with  her." 

"Then  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  will 
recover  from  this  attack,"  said  Shak- 
spere,  consolingly. 

The  Earl  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  no  wish  to  recover.  The 
madness  is  too  delightful." 

"I  see  I  shall  have  some  trouble  in 
bringing  you  over  to  her  Ladyship's 
view,"  said  the  poet.  "But  now  let  us 
to  bed.  The  hour  is  late,  and  sleep 
cures  many  ills." 


IX 

In  which  Phyllis  awakens   betimes 

HE  wardrobe  in  which 
>,  Phyllis  passed  the  night 
was  slightly  lighted  by  a  win- 
dow that  looked  upon  an  in- 
ner court.  The  gray  dawn 
crept  through  the  casement, 
lighting  up  a  weird  procession  that 


'&o  is  t&e  time  that  keep*  pott  a*  rap  cbeet 
©r  as  the  toarfcrobe  mljicb  tbc  robe  Uotb  (jiue. 

LJJ. 


stole  into  the  girl's  last  dream.  There, 
hanging  in  a  row  against  the  wall  like 
a  company  of  headless  knights,  were 
the  garments  of  his  Lordship. 

The  rich  costumes  bespoke  his  taste 
and  spirit  so  plainly  that  a  knowledge 
of  them  was  like  a  key  to  the  character 
of  their  owner.  They  were  protected 
from  dust  by  a  projecting  shelf  on 
which  the  corresponding  headgear  was 
arranged, — helmets,  Scotch  bonnets, 
periwigs,  and  large  hats  of  the  Cav- 
alier with  their  wonderful  plumes.  On 
the  floor  beneath,  standing  in  mili- 
tary precision,  were  shoes,  boots,  leg- 
gings and  high-heeled  slippers.  A 
fortune  was  represented  in  the  quan- 
tity of  gold  and  silver  lace,  buckles  and 
ornaments,  yet  here  was  only  a  small 
part  of  the  Earl's  apparel.  The  clos- 
ets of  Hampton  Court  could  show  a 
bigger  display,  though  not  more  elab- 
orate; for  now  all  was  of  the  finest,  in 
honor  of  the  Queen. 
91 


O' LONDON 


Phyllis  opened  her  eyes,  wondering 
why  the  vision  did  not  vanish;  and  as 
the  events  of  yesterday  crowded  in 
upon  her  mind,  she  still  waited  for  the 
whole  fantastic  fabric  of  her  adven- 
tures to  fade  away,  leaving  her  at  home 
again  in  the  dull  routine  of  a  quiet 
maiden's  daily  life. 

But  the  light  grew  clearer,  and  my 
Lord's  apparel  became  more  distinct 
and  splendid.  Phyllis  sat  up  with  a 
little  exclamation  of  horror  at  her  sit- 
uation. Then  she  thought  of  Philip. 
There  was  something  infinitely  consol- 
ing in  the  thought  of  Philip.  Only  a 
little  more  courage,  and  her  work 
would  be  done!  She  would  soon  be 
at  home  with  that  dear  brother.  For 
his  sake,  she  must  succeed.  Was  there 
anything  that  she  would  not  undertake 
and  accomplish  for  his  sake?  With  a 
brief  prayer  for  his  speedy  recovery, 
she  arose  and  opened  her  door  to  peep 
into  the  room  beyond. 
92 


ei 


In  front  of  her,  on  a  couch  lay  Shak- 
spere  asleep.  Phyllis  held  her  breath 
while  she  looked  at  him,  but  she 
studied  him  well.  His  scarlet  cloak 
was  spread  over  him,  as  though  even  in 
sleep  he  was  loth  to  resign  all  sign  of 
his  calling.  His  face  looked  older 
than  when  animated  by  the  ever-chan- 
ging play  of  feature  that  charmed  one 
in  his  conscious  hours ;  there  were  lines 
on  the  forehead  brought  by  care  and 
responsibility  that  had  lain  too  heavily 
on  youthful  shoulders. 

She  noticed  with  interest  that  his 
hair  and  beard  were  cut  after  the  man- 
ner of  Chaucer's  portraits. 

"He  imitates  his  Master  in  his 
looks,"  she  said  to  herself,  "but  there 
is  no  copying  of  his  songs,  I  know!" 

The  sleeper  is  always  in  the  place  of 
the  child.  Through  the  day,  Phyllis 
admired  and  feared  this  man,  but  now 
there  was  something  pathetic  and  wist- 
ful in  his  face  that  went  to  her  heart. 
93 


yyy 


I 


IT 


She  thought  him  beautiful.  Knowing 
nothing  of  his  past,  she  feared  it  had 
been  sad. 

Slipping  quietly  by  Shakspere,  she 
walked  across  the  room  toward  where 
Lord  Southampton  lay  lost  in  the  re- 
cesses of  an  enormous  canopied  four- 
poster.  Phyllis  did  not  know  that  the 
curtained  pile  she  approached  was  a 
bed  until  the  Earl  pushed  aside  the 
curtains  and  whispered  a  smiling  good- 
morning. 

He  was  rosy  and  flushed  with  sleep, 
his  auburn  curls  somewhat  disheveled, 
and  the  more  beautiful  for  their  dis- 
array. 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  Phyllis,  who 
kissed  it  dutifully,  blushing  and  some- 
what confused.  The  Earl  was  pitiful 
of  such  timidity,  caused  as  he  supposed 
by  awe  of  his  rank,  and  he  desired  to 
make  the  friend  of  his  friend  at  ease. 

"Perch  yourself  up  here  beside  me, 
Philip.  No?  Why  'no'?  Is  there 
94 


anything  fearful  about  me?  Surely 
not!  My  poet  would  have  found  me 
out  long  ago,  and  he  would  then  have 
warned  me !" 

The  Earl  was  watching  her  with 
wide-eyed  interest. 

"Come,  tell  me  about  the  Puritan!" 
he  went  on.  "My  curiosity  will  not  be 
denied.  Is  Will  really  displeased 
with  you?  or  is  he  but  acting  as  he  does 
in  my  case?  For  you  must  know  that 
he  means  not  a  word  of  what  he  says 
to  me.  It  would  break  his  heart  to 
see  me  wedded." 

Phyllis  seated  herself  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed,  and  Southampton,  propped  on 
one  elbow,  waited  to  be  amused. 

"What  is  there  amiss  in  a  suitable 
betrothal?"  asked  the  little  player. 

"A  suitable  betrothal!"  repeated  the 
Earl.  "How  excellent!  And  when 
did  you  fall  in  love  with  the  lady?" 

"Fall  in  love?  I  know  nothing  of 
95 


" 


that.  My  guardian  declares  that  he 
has  arranged  a  suitable  and  desirable 
match.  I  shall  begin  to  love  when  the 
marriage  takes  place." 

"Nonsense!  Your  eyes  are  full  of 
mischief.  I  warrant  you,  you  know 
some  pretty  girls  of  your  own  age  who 
would  suit  you  better!  Why,  they 
would  have  married  me  years  ago! 
But  I  have  waited,  and  now  I  am  in 
love.  Do  you  know  the  most  beautiful 
woman  at  Court?  She  has  dark  eyes 
like  yours!  The  Court  admits  no 
beauty  in  a  dark  lady,  but  in  our  hearts 
we  know  what  beauty  is." 

"Yes,  it  lies  deeper  than  speech,"  as- 
sented Phyllis.  "How  glad  you  must 
be  that  you  have  at  last  found  the  right 
wife!"  ' 

"Alas!  she  may  never  be  my  wife. 

The  Queen  is  very  watchful  of  her 

maids.     No  one  of  them  can  marry 

without  her  consent.    And  I, — I  am  a 

96 


O'LrONDON 


child  of  State.  Do  you  know  what 
that  means?  Her  Majesty  stands  in 
place  of  father  and  guardian.  She 
would  never  allow  the  marriage." 

Phyllis,  deeply  moved,  reached  out 
her  hand  in  sympathy;  but  the  woe 
that  such  a  black  prospect  should  have 
caused  a  would-be  husband,  was  not 
evinced  by  his  Lordship.  He  took  the 
little  hand  quickly  enough,  and  sur- 
veyed it  with  critical  interest.  When 
she  would  have  withdrawn  it,  he  held 
it  firmly,  and  looked  into  her  face  with 
assumed  indignation. 

"How  dare  you,  one  of  the  players, 
show  me  a  hand  more  slender  than  my 
own,  which  is  called  like  that  of  a 
woman?  Confess!  Are  you  not  the 
veritable  Lady  Juliet?  Eyes  and  hair 
like  night,  the  very  ideal  of  the  part 
you  play!" 

Too  much  confused  to  answer,  Phyl- 
lis continued  her  efforts  to  get  her  hand 
97 


IT 


O' LONDON 


away;  but  though  the  Earl's  was  as 
fair  as  her  own,  it  was  strong  as  an 
iron  vise. 

"A  beautiful  hand  for  a  boy!"  pur- 
sued Southampton  teasingly,  "but 
how  very  weak!" 

"No,  my  Lord,"  exclaimed  Phyllis, 
"it  is  not  beautiful  nor  weak,  but  yours 
is  over-strong!  One  who  is  victor  in 
the  tournament  ought  to  be  more  pow- 
erful than  a  lad  who  plays  woman's 
parts." 

At  this  moment,  the  two  were  con- 
scious of  other  eyes.  Shakspere  had 
awakened.  The  sight  that  greeted 
him  was  not  one  to  begin  his  day 
auspiciously.  There  was  the  timid 
girl  whom  he  had  been  at  such  pains  to 
conceal,  sitting  familiarly  beside  the 
very  man  from  whom  he  most  wished 
to  hide  her.  He  glanced  in  wondering 
indignation  at  Southampton.  The 
Earl  was  looking  at  the  little  player, 
98  ' 


without  the  slightest  effort  to  conceal 
his  admiration. 

Shakspere's  love  for  Southampton 
was  of  long  standing.  It  was  found- 
ed on  the  strongest  possible  founda- 
tion, that  of  benefits  received  and,  con- 
tinued. His  anger  turned  entirely 
against  Phyllis,  because  it  seemed  as 
though  she  must  have  deliberately 
brought  about  this  situation :  either  she 
had  told  all,  or  his  Lordship  had  known 
all,  without  the  need  of  being  told.  In 
any  case,  she  ought  to  have  stayed 
where  she  was  put! 

He  was  always  master  of  himself, 
so  that  now  he  sprang  up  with  appar- 
ent haste,  exclaiming  on  the  lateness  of 
the  hour.  "We  must  be  off  at  once, 
my  Lord,"  he  said,  approaching 
Southampton.  That  affectionate 
young  man,  utterly  unconscious  of  any 
cause  for  ill-feeling,  pulled  Shakspere 
down  for  a  boisterous  embrace ;  seeing 
which,  Phyllis  saved  herself  from  fur- 
99 


o*ix>NDorsr 


ther  good-byes  by  hastening  to    the 
door. 

Shakspere  followed  in  grave  dis- 
pleasure ;  and  silently,  they  made  their 
way  through  the  Palace  halls. 


100 


In  which  actions  and  acting  are  dis- 
cussed 


HEN  they  reached  the 
theatre,  the  troupe  of  act- 
ors had  not  yet  bestirred 
themselves,  and  the  great 
hall  was  deserted. 

"Sit    you    here,"    said 


life*  ebe^  apple  U0t&  %  beaut?  fftoto, 
t&p  fiftoeet  totrttte  anstoer  not  t^p  el)oto!0 

Sonnet  XCIII. 


Shakspere,  sternly,  placing  a  chair 
near  the  royal  boxes  on  the  stage. 
"Sit  here,  and  do  you  not  leave  the 
stage  on  any  account.  Remember  that 
I  am  answerable  for  you." 

The  spirit  of  mischief  entered  Phyl- 
lis at  sight  of  the  dignified,  earnest 
countenance  of  her  hitherto  sympa- 
thetic friend. 

"You  have  said  I  must  act  well  to- 
day," she  answered,  demurely.  "Tell 
me,  how  can  I  act  the  boy  well,  sitting 
still  on  a  chair?" 

Even  this  clever  turn,  the  poet  was 
not  at  a  loss  for  a  reply.  Going 
frankly  to  her,  he  exclaimed : 

"Phyllis,  you  are  too  quick  for  me. 
Let  us  play  no  parts  to  each  other.  Of 
course,  I  know  you!  And  my  anxiety 
for  you  is  greater  than  your  own,  be- 
cause I  know  so  well  what  would  re- 
sult from  discovery  of  you. 

"There  is  not  a  man  in  the  Palace 
or  in  London  Town  who  would  believe 
102 


in  you,  if  he  knew  that  you  had  come, 
of  your  free  will,  into  the  company  of 
the  players " 

"There  is  one  man,"  she  exclaimed 
with  flaming  cheeks  and  angry  eyes, 
"and  for  him  I  care  more  than  for  all 
others  in  London,  or  in  the  world  1" 

"There  is  one  man,"  assented  Shak- 
spere,  eagerly,  "who  blesses  you  for 
coming — the  man  whose  art  could 
never  have  been  realized  without  you." 

"I  speak  of  Philip,  my  brother." 

"And  I  speak  of  myself." 

"Of  yourself?  No,  no!  You  are  al- 
ready suspicious  and  doubtful.  You 
are  one  of  the  players.  Good  women 
exist  for  you  only  in  your  plays!" 

"You  have  heard  me  say  as  much; 
but  hold  it  not  against  me,  for  I  am 
truly  anxious  to  protect  you.  You 
are  inexperienced,  young,  emotional. 
Who  in  his  senses  would  permit  you  to 
come  under  the  influence  of  his  Lord- 
ship, the  Earl  of  Southampton?" 
103 


"Do  you  speak 
friend?" 

"I  speak  no  ill  of  him — friend,  pa- 
tron, my  personal  sovereign,  if  you 
will.  I  speak  no  ill  of  him,  but  I  de- 
clare him  irresistible.  And  he  has 
talked  of  love  to  you  already!" 

"My  fault  has  been  in  selecting  you 
for  a  confidant!"  exclaimed  Phyllis, 
suddenly.  "I  should  have  confessed 
all  to  Burbage  in  the  first  place!" 

"Oh,  heavens,  no!  How  have  I 
failed  you?  What  could  he  have  done 
more?  Is  there  anything  you  would 
ask  of  me?" 

"Yes!  You  have  made  me  afraid — 
afraid  of  you  and  of  your  comrades. 
I  ask  you  to  busy  yourself  elsewhere 
and  to  leave  me  alone." 

He  looked  at  her,  reproachfully. 

"You  show  great  discretion!   I  am 

a  man  like  the  rest;  but  my  dismissal 

comes  because  I  try  to  put  you  on  your 

guard — because  I  want  to  see  that  no 

104 


O'  LONDON 


harm  befalls  you — because  I  desire 
that  no  one  shall  know  what  I  know!" 

"You  pretend  to  understand  better 
than  I  how  to  act  my  part,  which  is  not 
a  little  difficult!  I  need  kindness  and 
help,  and  you  berate  me !  If  I  had  held 
back  like  a  shy  girl  when  my  Lord 
called  me,  he  would  have  known  me 
for  one.  As  it  is,  I  am  still  Philip  to 
him,  unless  your  strangeness  and  haste 
have  betrayed  the  secret." 

"But,  Phyllis,"  argued  the  man, 
only  half  convinced,  "he  was  talking  of 
your  hair  and  hands  and  eyes!" 

"Yes,  they  are  uncommon  for  a 
boy!"  She  opened  the  brown  eyes  wide 
upon  him. 

Blue  is  the  color  of  truth,  and  one 
cannot  find  truth  in  a  dark  eye. 
Shakspere  gazed  until  his  glance  was 
drowned  in  the  limpid  depths,  but  he 
turned  away,  only  half  satisfied.  He 
felt  that  she  was  deliberately  trying  to 
win  back  his  approval,  and  he  felt  him- 

105 


self  yield,  though  unwillingly,  to  her 
charm.  Seeing  him  relent,  she  caught 
his  hand  and  cried: 

"Let  me  be  your  Philip  again!  I 
liked  it  better  so.  Forget  who  I  real- 
ly am!" 

With  an  effort,  he  recovered  his 
usual  sprightliness,  and  bade  her  help 
him  with  the  curtain,  which  was  not 
running  smoothly. 

The  Palace  began  to  wake  up,  and 
the  theatre  was  soon  a  busy  place. 
Tibalt  and  Mercutio  tried  a  bout  with 
the  rapiers  to  give  them  an  appetite 
for  breakfast,  and  various  other  char- 
acters in  the  play  went  over  their 
parts. 

Phyllis  climbed  into  the  balcony  to 
assure  herself  that  it  was  in  order,  and 
from  this  point  of  vantage  she  saw 
the  Earl  of  Southampton  enter  the 
door,  accompanied  by  two  others  whom 
she  did  not  know — John  Florio,  anx- 
ious to  know  how  fared  the  boy  for 
106 


whom  his  elixir  had  been  prescribed; 
and  Essex,  the  Court  favorite.  They 
sought  out  Shakspere  and  invited  him 
to  breakfast  with  them;  but  he  pleaded 
much  business  as  an  excuse,  and  they 
were  forced  to  go  without  him.  As 
they  withdrew,  Essex  whispered  some 
phrases  apparently  of  a  flattering  na- 
ture, for  Shakspere's  gesture  indicated 
a  modest  disclaimer,  when  he  bade 
them  good-bye  with  the  air  of  a  courtly 
host ;  this  was,  in  truth,  his  domain. 

When  they  were  gone,  he  looked  up 
at  Phyllis,  who  was  resting  her  arms 
on  the  balcony.  Southampton  had 
not  even  glanced  at  her.  With  a  feel- 
ing of  relief,  so  intense  that  he  did  not 
try  to  explain  it,  Shakspere  decided 
that  the  girl's  secret  was  still  hers  and 
his  own. 

At  midday,  after  a  late  breakfast, 

the  Queen  and  her  attendants  entered 

the    hall    that    Lord    Hunsdon    had 

fitted    up    for    the     royal     theatre. 

107 


Masques  and  plays  were  frequently 
given  here,  but  usually  without  any 
great  formality.  Her  Majesty's 
moods  changed  so  constantly  that  her 
entertainers  were  often  forced  to  plan 
at  short  notice.  To-day  it  was  not  so, 
and  more  than  ordinary  efforts  had 
been  made.  The  balcony  needed  no 
label,  and  there  was  a  brave  attempt 
at  costuming.  Lord  Hunsdon  felt 
that  his  preparations  were  elaborate, 
and  he  was  ready  to  enjoy  a  triumph. 

There  was  considerable  excitement 
among  the  members  of  the  cast.  The 
only  calm  person  was  the  author- 
manager,  on  whom  so  much  responsi- 
bility rested.  He  seemed  to  be 
everywhere,  and  had  good  need  for  all 
his  presence  of  mind;  only  his  tact 
assured  the  peaceful  behavior  of  his 
comrades  whom  idleness  was  beginning 
to  make  boisterous. 

The  Mercutio  had  enjoyed  an  extra 
quart  of  ale  for  his  breakfast,  and  he 
108 


.re**1'- 

1 


O^l/ONJDON 


now  grew  wrathful  at  the  necessity  of 
allowing  Tibalt  to  overcome  him  with 
the  rapier.  He  had  not  realized  be- 
fore how  mortifying  it  would  be  to  let 
these  Lords  and  Ladies  think  he  could 
not  parry  such  a  simple  thrust !  Shak- 
spere  took  time  to  restore  the  come- 
dian's good  humor,  explaining  that 
Mercutio's  value  lay  in  his  merry  dis- 
position and  clever  tongue.  Tibalt's 
triumph  was  to  be  brief  at  best!  He 
was  a  surly  fellow,  and  Romeo  would 
soon  lay  him  low. 

Burbage  was  superb — he  showed  to 
the  best  advantage  when  pleased  with 
the  world  and  with  himself,  as  he  was 
now.  In  an  enthusiastic  frame  of 
mind,  he  congratulated  his  Juliet  on 
her  appearance. 

"I  feared  you  might  be  worse  to- 
day instead  of  better,"  he  said,  "but 
Greene  had  no  real  wish  to  kill  you! 
Just  to  sicken  you  and  put  you  out  of 
the  way  for  a  day:  that  would  have 
109 


O'L/ONDON 


satisfied  him.  But  fortune  has  fav- 
ored us,  and  here  you  are,  one  of  Lord 
Hunsdon's  men  after  all!" 

"Philip,"  he  added,  suddenly,  "I 
have  always  wished  I  could  play  op- 
posite a  woman  once,  and  now " 

"Yes,  what  now?" 

"Now  I  cannot  imagine  a  woman's 
making  so  sweet  a  Juliet  as  you  do!" 

"Perchance,  my  sister?" 

"Oh,  no,  she  is  too  discreet.  She 
would  never  allow  herself  to  be  tossed 
by  such  mighty  passions  as  we  have 
here." 

Juliet's  cheeks  paled  perceptibly,  as 
she  turned  aside  to  straighten  the  cap 
of  the  nurse.  Tom  Sly  took  his  part 
well,  but  was  temporarily  overcome  by 
the  difficulty  of  adjusting  cap  and 
apron. 


110 


In  which  a  woman  is  successful. 

HERE  was  a  sudden  hush 
in  the  hall.      The  Queen 
was  seated  to  her  liking,  and 
she  signaled  for  the  play  to 
begin.     *     *    * 

What    a    wonderful    per- 
formance !    There  were  the  first  of  the 


©&,  sure  3f  am,  t&e  totts  of  former  Hap* 

Co  subjects  merer  fcafct  stuen  attmtrittff  praise!" 

Sonnet  LIX. 


O' LONDON 


players  of  the  time;  there  was  the 
greatest  of  authors;  and  there  was  as 
august  an  audience  as  ever  assembled! 
And  all  were  held  breathless  and  spell- 
bound by  the  power  of  a  beautiful 
actress.  Phyllis  had  stepped  beyond 
the  pale.  For  her,  life  could  never 
turn  back  to  yesterday.  She  was  the 
ideal  heroine  of  the  world's  romance, 
playing  before  the  Queen ;  she  was  the 
personification  of  his  ideal,  playing  be- 
fore the  poet. 

As  one  fascinated,  the  Earl  of 
Southampton  watched  her.  He  sat  be- 
side Lady  Vernon,  but  his  eyes  never 
left  Phyllis  for  a  moment  while  she  was 
on  the  stage.  The  Lords  Bedford  and 
Essex  were  hardly  less  interested.  In 
the  short  intermission  between  the  acts, 
"that  beautiful  boy,  Philip,"  was  the 
chief  topic.  But  Philip  Condell  had 
been  talked  of  for  some  weeks  with  ad- 
miration, and  so  strong  was  the  resem- 
blance between  Phyllis  and  her  brother 

112 


that  none  thought  of  questioning  the 
identity. 

It  was  evident  from  the  first  that  the 
play  would  be  a  success.  Interest 
never  flagged,  and  the  Queen  forgot 
to  yawn. 

Relieved  in  regard  to  his  personal 
fortunes,  Shakspere  had  leisure  to  con- 
sider the  fortunes  of  others.  The  at- 
tention Phyllis  was  attracting  dis- 
turbed him.  To  get  her  safely  home 
would  be  a  problem.  The  affection  he 
felt  for  Philip  lying  sick  added  to  his 
anxiety.  He  had  worldly  wisdom 
enough  to  know  that  Philip  might  not 
regard  this  escapade  as  his  sister  did — 
in  the  light  of  a  service  for  which  he 
should  be  grateful.  Philip  was  a 
youth  of  a  sensitive  and  delicate  tem- 
perament. Phyllis  seemed  possessed 
of  more  force  and  courage  than  he,  and 
Shakspere  felt  that  the  brother  must 
be  spared  all  knowledge  of  what  had 
occurred. 

113 


In  consequence,  now  the  poet  was 
in  haste  for  the  epilogue;  and  then 
without  waiting  for  congratulations, 
he  hoped  to  take  his  friend's  dear  sister 
safely  home.  But  this  was  not  easy  of 
accomplishment.  In  the  applause  that 
followed  the  end  of  the  play,  the  chief 
actors  filed  across  the  stage,  each  stop- 
ping to  bow  to  the  Queen,  who  had  now 
and  then  a  word  to  give  them. 

"As  for  you,  Master  Shakspere," 
she  said,  in  answer  to  his  deferential 
salutation,  "I  shall  not  forgive  you  the 
tears  we  have  shed  over  these  tragic 
lovers  until  you  present  yourself  a  year 
hence  with  a  comedy  which  shall  make 
Us  forget  tears  in  laughter.  Mind 
you,  my  old  friend  Falstaff  must  be 
of  the  company!" 

In  this  fashion  came  the  commission 
of  Shakspere  for  the  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor. 

Burbage  received  an  ovation.  His 
handsome  figure  and  his  passionate 
114 


s 


O'L-OrSTDON 


acting  invariably  kindled  enthusiasm; 
and  of  Phyllis  the  Queen  said  audibly : 

"He  will  never  play  the  man  half  as 
well  as  he  does  the  maid." 

When  they  passed  off  the  stage,  the 
elder  Burbage  shook  Shakspere's  hand 
warmly,  and  congratulated  him  on 
their  great  success. 

Meanwhile,  the  Earl  of  Bedford 
came  behind  the  curtain  and  engaged 
Phyllis  in  conversation.  He  was  ex- 
actly Southampton's  age  and  his  boon 
companion ;  but  in  physical  and  mental 
attributes,  the  two  were  very  different. 
Southampton  was  manly  in  spite  of  his 
almost  feminine  beauty;  while  Bed- 
ford, naturally  vigorous,  seemed 
sapped  of  strength  by  the  voluptuous 
life  of  the  Court. 

"You  must  not  plead  fear  as  an  ex- 
cuse to  get  away  from  me  now!"  he 
laughed.  "I  have  a  serious  proposi- 
tion to  make  to  you." 

"I  shall  be  honored  to  listen,  my 
115 


Lord,  but  pray  allow  me  first  to  re- 
move these  awkward  woman's  trap- 
pings," Phyllis  answered  readily;  and 
Shakspere  admired  the  wit  that 
warned  her  to  be  rid  of  her  robes.  In 
them,  she  was  too  alluring. 

A  few  minutes  later,  her  slim  figure 
showed  the  graceful  page  for  some 
lady's  bower.  This  had  been  the 
thought  in  Bedford's  mind.  He  was 
seeking  an  attendant  for  his  young 
wife,  but  he  now  decided  that  the  boy 
was  too  attractive  for  that  post. 

"I  need  a  valet,"  he  said.  "It  is  a 
position  of  honor  near  my  person.  I 
offer  it  to  you." 

Shakspere  clenched  his  fists  in  im- 
potent rage,  but  Phyllis  looked 
amused  and  answered  calmly : 

"My  Lord,  my  talents  lie  in  such  a 
different  direction!  My  unfitness  must 
be  my  excuse  for  refusing  the  honor 
you  offer  me." 

"But,  boy,  you  are  ambitious,  surely! 
116 


This  is  a  great  chance  to  rise  in  the 
world.  Do  not  take  my  words  too 
lightly.  As  to  unfitness,  practice  will 
overcome  that.  You  are  clever 
enough.  Think  how  fine  it  would  be 
for  you  to  live  in  my  household,  clad 
and  fed  as  my  retainers  are." 

"And  should  I  have  nothing  to  do 
but  dress  and  eat?"  asked  the  boy,  ap- 
pearing to  take  an  interest. 

"Oh,  a  few  light  tasks,"  murmured 
his  Lordship.  "I  should  let  you  shave 
me,  perhaps.  You  have  nice,  delicate 
hands.  I  hate  paws  upon  my  face." 

"Well,  my  Lord,  I  differ  from  you," 
said  Phyllis,  rubbing  her  smooth 
cheeks."  I  never  trust  a  light  hand  to 
shave  me  for  fear  of  its  dropping  the 
razor." 

Bedford  could  but  laugh  at  the  frol- 
icsome youth,  it  was  so  evident  that  his 
face  had  never  yet  caused  the  barber 
a  moment's  time. 

"Truly,"  the  boy  proceeded,  "at 
117 


O' LONDON 


sight  of  a  spider,  the  razor  would  slip 
from  my  hand.  Whereas  I  can  recite 
the  monologue  of  the  mad  Dane  with- 
out fear,  even  in  the  dark. 

"Is  it  a  dagger  that  I  see  before  me? 
No,  no — only  a  razor! 

"My  Lord,  my  Lord,  you  cannot  un- 
derstand! While  you  offer  me  an 
honor,  as  undeserved  as  it  is  generous, 
think,  what  I  should  have  to  renounce. 
I  may  yet  live  to  be  a  King — upon  the 
stage." 

Shakspere's  eyes  gleamed  with  ad- 
miration and  approval.  This  Phyllis, 
she  was  wonderful!  Philip  would 
never  have  answered  so  well.  Such  ef- 
frontery, such  charming  impudence, 
was  unprecedented !  The  Earl  seemed 
actually  dazed.  Recovering  himself 
with  an  effort,  he  renewed  his  insist- 
ence. 

"I  shall  not  hold  your  words  against 
you,  and  I  wish  you  so  well  that  I  am 
118 


" 


going  to  lend  you  my  livery  for  a  few 
days." 

At  this,  one  of  Bedford's  attendants 
stepped  forward,  and  obeying  a  mo- 
tion from  his  master,  endeavored  to 
throw  a  green  cloak  over  the  little 
player's  shoulders. 

Phyllis  dodged  him,  and  her  face 
flushed  with  anger. 

"I  will  be  frank  with  you,  my 
Lord,"  she  said.  "I  have  no  wish  to  go 
into  service;  but  if  I  should  do  so,  it 
would  be  to  Lord  Southampton,  with 
whom  I  have  talked  already;  in  any 
case,  your  offer  comes  too  late." 

The  Earl's  displeasure  was  so  evi- 
dent that  Shakspere  felt  called  upon 
to  allay  it,  if  possible,  lest  it  should  in 
some  way  react  to  injure  his  friends. 

"Your  Lordship  forgets  that  we  are 
already  in  service  to  Lord  Hunsdon, 
and  through  him  to  her  Majesty  the 
Queen.  We  are  already  bound." 

"Only  in  name,"  exclaimed  Bed- 
119 


ford  testily,  "only  in  name !  You  carry 
his  license,  that  is  all !  But  some  would 
rather  be  vagabonds  than  trusted  serv- 
ants !"  So  saying,  he  walked  off,  angry 
enough  at  the  downfall  of  his  scheme. 


120 


1 


XII 

In  which  the  players  dine,  and  Phyllis 
forgets  a  part 

HYLLIS  turned  grate- 
fully to  Shakspere. 
"Is  he  not  dreadful!"  she 
exclaimed.     "We  must  get 
away  from  here!    I  feel  as 
though  I  should  never  reach 
home  again." 


C>oto  tan  mp  muse  want  subject  to  intent 
H? bile  tljoti  fcoet  treatbe,  that  pour'st  into  mp  newe 
(Tbme  oton  etueet  arg;timent?" 

Sonnet  XXXVIII. 


The  stimulus  she  had  received  from 
Florio's  draught  had  worn  off  with  the 
excitement  of  the  play.  It  was  now 
near  four  o'clock  of  the  afternoon,  and 
they  had  breakfasted  early. 

"You  cannot  take  that  long  walk 
now,  without  food — let  us  join  our 
comrades  at  dinner,"  said  Shakspere, 
pitiful  of  her  pale  cheeks  and  tired 
eyes.  Phyllis  assented,  as  much  for 
his  sake  as  for  her  own.  She  was  tired 
and  hungry,  therefore  he  must  be. 

They  joined  the  players  at  table, 
but  no  sooner  had  they  seated  them- 
selves than  a  servant  who  seemed  to 
have  been  waiting  for  them,  slipped 
a  letter  into  Phyllis's  hand.  Her 
watchful  neighbor  observed  it  and  saw 
also  the  rosy  smile  that  seemed  to 
sweep  over  her  whole  face. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  exclaimed  to  him- 
self, looking  up  and  down  the  double 
row  of  faces.  "Is  there  a  man  here 
who  can  help  knowing  that  this  is  a 
122 


woman?"     To    her,     he 
"What  says  your  note?" 

"That  he  is  all  impatience  to  see 
me." 

"And  'he'  means "? 

"Philip,  of  course!" 

"Philip?" 

"Who  else?    Oh,  how  I  hate " 

"Me?" 

"No,  your  suspicions !" 

"I  have  none!"  But  he  doubted  even 
while  he  spoke.  The  dainty  sheet  was 
not  such  as  she  would  have  received 
from  home.  He  was  convinced  that  it 
was  from  the  Earl  of  Southampton. 
Shakspere  admired  the  Earl  so  great- 
ly that  he  attributed  his  own  feelings 
to  all  who  came  in  contact  with  his 
bright  particular  star.  He  decided 
now  to  hurry  this  troublesome  charge 
home  as  soon  as  might  be.  The  very 
atmosphere  of  Whitehall  had  a  demor- 
alizing effect  upon  women;  and  as  he 
123 


0 'LONDON 


had  introduced  this  one  to  Southamp- 
ton, his  responsibility  was  great. 

He  was  musing  thus,  when  Burbage 
called  to  him  from  the  end  of  the 
board. 

"Why  so  silent,  Will?  Is  the 
Queen's  rebuke  lying  heavy  on  your 
shoulders?  Zounds,  man,  it  was  all 
meant  for  praise!" 

"It  was  praise,"  corrected  Shak- 
spere. 

"Then  why  so  glum?" 

"Your  recent  death,  Romeo,  may 
have  oppressed  me." 

"Far  less  than  it  oppressed  me!  Life 
might  have  been  a  very  pleasant  thing, 
and  you  are  responsible  for  the  end,  if 
anyone  be.  But  have  you  heard  the 
news?" 

"There  is  news  already?  Of  what?" 

''Why,  of  ourselves!  What  else  in- 
terests us?    We  shall  be  here  another 
while.     Midsummer  Night's  Dream  is 
commanded  for  to-morrow.     I  call  it 
124 


ir 


PLAYERS 
O'LtONbON 


rare  good  luck  when  we  are  all  so  well 
practiced!" 

"Not  I!"  exclaimed  Phyllis,  with 
difficulty  concealing  her  consternation. 

"You  did  well  enough  a  few  weeks 
ago,"  said  Sly. 

"But  my  thoughts  have  been  on 
Juliet  since  then,"  answered  Phyllis. 
"Helena  is  all  but  forgotten." 

"Oh,  peace,  Philip!"  cried  Shak- 
spere,  in  an  agony  lest  her  ignorance 
should  betray  her.  "If  you  have  any 
such  fears,  let  us  not  wait  longer  here. 
I  call  a  rehearsal  at  once." 

"No,  no,  no!"  shouted  a  dozen  voices 
in  protest. 

Shakspere  arose. 

"Friends,  be  not  over-hasty!"  he 
said.  "You  shall  not  be  disturbed.  I 
have  no  will  to  make  Philip  so  disliked. 
But  the  cobwebs  must  be  brushed  from 
his  brain,  for  the  fever  has  dimmed  his 
memory.  Take  our  share  of  pudding 
and  ale  in  lieu  of  our  company." 
125 


"That  will  suit  me  well,"  asserted 
Phyllis,  rising  hastily. 

Shakspere  took  her  hand,  which 
slipped  into  his  with  the  warm,  trustful 
clasp  of  a  child;  and  a  sigh  of  relief  es- 
caped him  as  they  passed  out  of  the 
hall  that  he  well  knew  would  soon  be 
a  place  of  revelry  too  boisterous  for 
women's  ears. 

They  went  back  to  the  scene  of  the 
day's  triumph.  The  theatre  was  de- 
serted. They  were  alone.  Where 
was  now  the  sister's  eager  haste  to  be 
gone?  Philip  seemed  to  have  sunk 
into  the  past,  and  Phyllis  stood  look- 
ing into  Shakspere's  eyes ;  but  neither 
one  could  speak.  The  man  was  in  tor- 
ment, for  he  was  in  doubt.  He  found 
himself  unable  to  fathom  his  compan- 
ion's motives  or  to  surmise  her  inten- 
tions. Did  she  mean  to  act  Helena  to- 
morrow? or  would  she  be  glad  to  es- 
cape from  the  players  and  from  him 
126 


• 

L 

J 

UMt/        >^ 

m 

and  forget  this  episode?    If  she  left 

TO 

them  now,  how  could  her  sudden  ab- 

JESaEjm. 

CK/5 

ir 

sence  be  explained  ?    To  take  her  home 

W 

2 

i 

meant  perhaps  never  to  see  her  again. 

1 

. 

That  idea  was  not  to  be  borne.     On  the 

other  hand  —  and  his  heart  tightened  at 

the  thought  —  she  carried  at  this  very 

moment  a  letter  from  Southampton. 

Bedford  wanted  to  get   hold   of  her. 

She  was  at  the  world's  mercy  in  a  false 

position,  trapped  in  a  series  of  fetes 

that  might  be  prolonged  for  a  week. 

To  take  her  safely  home  —  that  should 

have  been  his  one  desire,  and  yet  he 

stood  looking  at  her  in  silence  while  a 

thousand  questions  made  tumult  in  his 

heart.     The  success  for  which  he  had 

been  striving  was  forgotten,    or    re- 

mained only  as  a  bright  background 

for  this   slender  scarlet  figure,  who 

seemed   to    centralize    his    dramatic 

power  in  her  person.     Visions  of  the 

* 

future  Rosalind,   Portia   and  Viola, 

: 

- 

127 

i...                         ...i 

those  bright  heroines  of  masquerade, 
flitted  through  his  brain.  He  believed 
that  he  should  think  and  write  of  Phy^l- 
lis  for  all  time. 


1S8 


XIII 

Concerning  a  letter  and  a  lover 

N  Phyllis's  heart,  another 

tune  was  singing. 

"I  have  pleased  him,  the 
great  poet!  He  is  satisfied 
with  me,  the  wonderful  man! 
Why  has  Philip  grieved  that 


"<&!),  boto  mud)  mote  Uotb  bcautu  brantcotts  crrm 
•Bp  tbat  stoeet  ornament  tulncb  trutl)  Uotb  trtuc ." 

Sonnet  LIV. 


I  was  a  woman?  I  can  act  as  well  as 
he,  and  I  am  more  beautiful." 

The  approval  of  the  Court  could  not 
appeal  to  her,  for  it  was  given  to  a  boy ; 
but  this  leader  of  the  players  knew  her, 
and  she  felt  strangely  elated  by  his  ad- 
miration. Moreover,  there  was  the  re- 
action from  the  despair  of  the  last  few 
days,  for  without  Philip's  earnings, 
sickness  was  terrible  to  face;  and  now 
he  need  not  want  for  anything.  Sud- 
denly reproaching  herself  that  though 
only  in  thought  she  had  been  unfaith- 
ful to  him  for  a  moment,  she  ex- 
claimed : 

"Oh,  take  me  back!  My  poor  sick 
boy!  How  much  he  has  done  for  me! 
And  now  at  last  I  have  been  able  to 
serve  him.  How  often  he  has  said, 
*  Sister,  do  not  despise  me  for  the  com- 
pany I  keep !  My  work  is  honest  work, 
and  the  wage  I  earn  comes  home  to 
thee.'  Now  what  I  earn  shall  go  home 
130 


S 


V 


O'LrONDON 


to  him,  and  if  it  be  more  than  a  little, 
so  much  the  better.  The  fever  is  long 
and  grievous  to  bear;  but  silver  shil- 
lings can  help  him  to  whatever  he  may 
lack.  He  shall  have  white  bread  and 
gruel  made  with  milk  and  my  most 
loving  care." 

"Who  tends  him  now?"  asked  Shak- 
spere. 

"Our  old  nurse,  Goody  Tabitha. 
She  is  watching  his  every  breath,  I 
know.  He  was  too  ill  to  be  conscious 
of  my  going.  Take  me  to  him!" 

"A  difficult  feat,"  he  answered,  "but 
I  am  ready.  Yet  you  are  very  tired. 
You  have  had  no  rest  to-day  and  must 
have  slept  but  ill  last  night,  for  you 
were  awake  before  dawn." 

"I  am  very  tired !"  she  assented. 

"Tell  me,"  he  continued,  "do  you 
purpose  to  return?" 

Phyllis  glanced  up,  surprised. 

"Dare  I  disappoint  the  Queen?"  she 
131 


asked.     "I  shall  most  certainly  return 
unless  Philip  be  a-dying." 

"Which  God  forbid!  But  how  did 
you  hear  from  him  to-day?  Who  sent 
you  word  of  him?"  pursued  Shakspere, 
insistent  on  returning  to  the  subject  of 
the  letter. 

"Poor  man,  you  are  overcome  with 
anxiety  concerning  me  and  my  affairs! 
Were  you  not  a  poet,  I  should  say  that 
you  must  be  in  love.  But  I  suppose 
poets  take  interest  in  all  these  small 
details  for  their  art's  sake." 

"Why,  Phyllis,  have  you  any  use  for 
a  lover?" 

"What  woman  has  not?  I  hear  them 
spoken  of  as  exceeding  useful;  they 
do  make  most  devoted  servants  and  are 
excellent  to  go  on  errands.  If  one 
have  a  weakness  for  ribands  and  com- 
fits and  even  for  jewels,  I  have  heard 
that  such  things  are  very  easily  come 
by  through  lovers." 
132 


"You  are  mocking !  And  you  refuse 
to  tell  me  of  Philip's  letter!" 

"Of  his  letter?  Oh,  I  had  forgotten ! 
Goody  sent  word  by  the  baker's  boy. 
Poor  old  nurse — she  was  worried  that 
I  did  not  return ;  so  she  asked  Dick  to 
find  Master  Shakspere,  when  he 
brought  his  rolls  to  the  Palace,  and  to 
say  to  him  that  sick  Phyllis  was  no 
worse  and  to  ask  why  the  players  were 
detained.  She  is  pretending  that  I  am 
the  one  at  home." 

"Oh,  Phyllis!  when  I  myself  saw 
one  of  Southampton's  men  put  a  letter 
into  your  hand!"  exclaimed  Shakspere, 
hot  with  indignation.  "What  excuse  is 
there  for  this  idle  tale?" 

"What  excuse  indeed!  You  have 
very  little  intention  of  giving  me  rest 
or  peace  here.  Let  us  delay  no  longer. 
But,  sir,  since  a  woman's  word  bears 
no  weight  in  your  mind,  take  this  let- 
ter and  read  it." 

Opening  the  letter,  which  was  sure- 
133 


SA 


ly   enough    in    Southampton's    well- 
known  hand,  he  read: 

To  Philip,  Fairest  of  Women,  Rarest 
of  Men: 

My  excuse  for  addressing  you  shall 
end  my  letter,  that  you  may  read  of 
necessity  the  feelings  inspired  by  your 
performance  of  this  day.  Oh,  Juliet, 
why  are  you  not  alive,  and  I,  Romeo? 
And  why,  bright  Dream  of  Woman- 
hood, when  I  had  stormed  a  Fortress 
and  found  therein  one  whom  my  un- 
enlightened spirit  called  passing  fair — 
why  has  your  portrayal  of  my  Ideal 
crossed  my  path  to  destroy  the  Reality 
that  is  my  own?  My  Mistress  is  al- 
ready jealous.  Of  what?  Of  a  Phan- 
tom that  lives  in  my  mind  as  Beautiful 
and  Lovable — as  You  are! 

To  my  Postscript:   A  boy  reached 

my  apartments  after  you  and  my  Will 

had   gone.     He  brought   a   message 

from  one,  Goody  Tabitha,  saying  that 

134 


Phyllis  was  no  worse,  but  was  calling 
for  your  return.  I  saw  the  boy's  mes- 
sage to  be  for  you,  though  he  asked  for 
Burbage,  or  Shakspere,  thinking  to 
find  you  the  more  easily  through  them. 
Master  Dick  has  been  fed  and  fee'd 
and  has  returned.  I  promised  to  see 
his  message  safely  delivered. 

My  rooms  are  open  to  you  and  my 
beloved  Will.  Come  to  me  to-night. 

With  Greetings  of  Admiration  and 
Friendship,  SOUTHAMPTON. 

And  is  it  strange  that,  as  he  read, 
Will  Shakspere's  heart  was  not  wholly 
reassured? 


135 


XIV 

In  which  Phyllis  reaches  home 

>ND    you    think    Southamp- 
ton has  no  idea  of  your  sex?" 

"Why,  Will,  I   should   be 
frightened  out  of  all  reason  at 
the  thought!  I  can  bear  that 
you  should  know  because — be- 
cause I  need  your  help.     I  felt  that 


"Cbcn  ffitoe  me  torlcomt,  nrrt  mp  bcabcn  tbr  bf 
to  tbp  pure  anH  most  lotitnff  breast." 
Sonnet  CX. 


O^ONDON 


you  would  understand.  But  even  you 
despise  me  for  what  I  have  done.  You 
think  I  would  never  have  been  so 
brave,  had  I  been  truly  modest." 

"I  am  amazed  at  what  you  have 
done!  That  one  without  training 
should  have  mastered  a  great  art — that 
a  young  girl  should  have  the  wit  for 
such  an  undertaking.  I  am  amazed  at 
the  loveliness  that  kindles  all  hearts. 
But,  oh,  Phyllis,  more  am  I  amazed  at 
myself!  You  cannot  know  me,  for  I 
do  not  know  myself!  Jealous?  Sus- 
picious? Passionate?  I?  Have  the 
faults  of  boyhood  returned  to  harass 
the  man?  Or  is  it  my  youth  itself  that 
you  have  brought  back?" 

Phyllis  would  not  have  been  human, 
had  she  remained  unmoved  by  such 
words  from  the  idol  of  the  players.  A 
flush  of  delight  swept  over  her  face  at 
his  praise ;  but  when  he  spoke  of  him- 
self, her  dark  eyes  grew  troubled. 
137 


!®: 


O'LONbON 


"You  fear  the  influence  of  others  for 
me,"  she  said,  "their  flattery  and  vain 
words.  Be  careful,  Master  Shak- 
spere,  to  speak  only  as  you  would  that 
others  should  speak.  Believe  me — I 
know  well  I  am  no  match  for  you!  Of 
no  one  else  have  I  any  fear,  and  yet 
you  know  how  truly  I  have  trusted 
you." 

Chivalry  decreed  that  she  should 
never  call  her  faith  misplaced. 

"I  shall  not  offend  in  word  or  deed," 
he  said,  "but  you  cannot  forbid  me  to 
write  of  you!" 

"Why,  heaven  itself  would  sin  in  re- 
straining your  rhyme!"  assented  Phyl- 
lis. "But  now,  to  Philip!  before  we 
are  either  missed  or  discovered." 

"We  must  run  no  risks,"  declared 
Shakspere.  "See!  I  shall  avoid  com- 
plications by  giving  my  explanation 
ahead  of  time."  So  saying  he  scrib- 
bled on  a  slip  of  paper: 
138 


Have  gone   to   the   Rose   Theatre 
for  MS.     Return  immediately. 

W.  S. 


This  missive  he  tacked  upon  the  cur- 
tain where  it  must  meet  the  eye  of 
anyone  entering  the  hall. 

Then  the  two  left  the  theatre  by  a 
side  door  that  led  into  a  terraced  court  ; 
passing  through  the  courtyard,  they 
soon  found  themselves  beyond  the 
limits  of  Whitehall,  and  how  sweet  the 
fresh  air  seemed  !  It  was  to  Phyllis  as 
to  one  set  free  from  prison.  Needless 
to  say,  they  chose  to  walk  in  quiet  back 
lanes,  for  friends  and  enemies  were 
equally  to  be  avoided.  Shakspere 
made  good  use  of  every  moment. 

"You  have  learned  Juliet  from 
Philip's  study  of  the  part,"  he  said. 
"Do  you  need  to  know  more  of 
Helena?" 

"Dear  Helena!  I  have  prompted 
Philip  many  a  time  as  he  learned  the 
139 


\ 


lines.  How  like  to  my  position  was 
hers!  Lost  with  Lysander  in  the 
woods  no  more  completely  than  was 
I  in  the  Palace!" 

"Let  us  not  talk  of  the  Palace!  We 
shall  return  all  too  soon." 

"You  do  not  like  it  there?" 

"My  likings  are  more  with  people 
than  with  places:  I  like  wherever  my 
friends  may  be." 

"Then  you  love  the  Palace." 

"Yes,  to-day." 

"How  fickle  that  seems!  But  sure- 
ly there  is  some  spot  on  earth  that 
claims  your  loyalty." 

"Stratford-on-Avon  has  it,  but  does 
not  claim  it.  A  peaceful  town!  Let 
us  not  talk  of  Stratford." 

"You  have  known  sorrow  there?" 

"Not  more  than  elsewhere." 

"Do  you,  most  fortunate  of  men, 
talk  of  sorrow?  The  world  seems  to 
give  you  all  you  ask." 

"I  ask  little;  much  has  been  given 
140 


me  that  I  do  not  ask;  but  the  few  sim- 
ple things  that  make  life  worth  while 
have  been  denied." 

"What  things  are  these?"  whispered 
Phyllis. 

"They  are  all  comprised  in  one,"  he 
said,  "the  loving  sympathy  of  one  who 
understands." 

"That  I  have  always  had,  and  may 
God  preserve  me  from  the  loss  of  it!" 
exclaimed  Phyllis,  hiding  her  face  in 
her  hands.  "I  feel  that  Philip  is  very 
ill,  and  I  grow  more  anxious  as  we 
near  the  house." 

It  is  with  horror  that  we  approach 
the  possibility  of  death.  The  two 
paused  in  the  doorway,  hardly  daring 
to  enter.  As  they  mounted  the  stairs, 
Shakspere  laid  a  detaining  hand  on 
Phyllis.  In  her  impetuous  haste,  she 
had  no  thought  but  of  reaching  Philip 
with  all  speed. 

"Not  thus  arrayed!"  exclaimed 
141 


Shakspere.  "Your  dress,  Phyllis, 
would  betray  your  secret.  It  must 
needs  be  altered  before  you  greet  our 
boy.  He  must  not  be  distressed  nor 
excited." 

She  saw  the  wisdom  of  the  sugges- 
tion, and  threw  aside  her  cloak,  prom- 
ising to  change  her  attire  before  she 
went  to  Philip.  Inside  the  door, 
Goody  Tabitha  met  them.  At  sight 
of  Phyllis,  she  burst  into  tears,  throw- 
ing her  apron  over  her  head  and 
sobbing  bitterly. 

"He  is  dead!  Philip!"  screamed  the 
sister  wildly,  rushing  toward  her 
brother's  door.  But  in  answer  to  her 
voice,  another  called  out:  "Phyllis!" 
and  entering  she  knelt  beside  the  pal- 
let on  which  the  boy  lay.  He  was 
pale,  the  fever  had  left  him  and  his 
eyes  were  closed  in  the  exhaustion  that 
comes  between  the  crisis  and  convales- 
cence. 

142 


"Phyllis,"  he  whimpered,  brokenly, 
"where — where  have  you  been?  I  have 
called  you 


"And  I  came!" 

"No — you  did  not  come.  I  have 
called,  called — and  called — you  were 
not  here." 

Tears  of  weakness  rolled  down  his 
cheeks.  Phyllis  kissed  them  away. 

Shakspere  stood  behind  her  in  the 
doorway,  sorrowfully  watching  the 
pair.  The  evening  shadows  were  be- 
ginning to  fall,  and  he  was  in  no  dan^ 
ger  of  being  seen. 

"Tell  me!"  whispered  Philip,  petu- 
lantly. 

"Dearest,  I  will  tell  you,  but  you 
know  without  the  telling,  that  if  I  was 
not  with  you,  I  was  doing  something 
for  you." 

"Don't  leave  me  again!"  he  pleaded. 

Phyllis  did  not  answer,  but  kissed 
him,  tears  running  down  her  cheeks. 
143 


O'LONbON 


With  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  and  relief, 
he  clasped  her  hand  in  his,  and  then, 
soothed  by  her  sweet  presence,  fell 
asleep. 


144 


XV 

In    which    Shakspere    defends    the 
players 

HE    sobbing  of  the    old 

woman  in  the  next  room  in- 
truded upon  the  silence. 

Shakspere  turned  to  com- 
fort her. 

"Mistress    Tabitha,    be  of 


comes  it  tbat  tjjp  name  rtcetues  a  farantt 
Sonnet  CXI. 


better  cheer.  My  fears  are  somewhat 
allayed  by  the  sleep  that  has  fallen 
upon  our  sufferer." 

Mistress  Tabitha  pulled  the  apron 
from  off  her  head,  showing  a  furrowed, 
tear-stained  face.  Her  little  black 
eyes  burned  angrily. 

"I  weep  not  for  Philip,  but  for  the 
one  who  can  never  be  well  again,  nor 
recover  what  she  has  lost — her  good 
name!" 

"Now,  Goody,  such  words  cannot 
pass.  Who  knows  of  what  your  little 
cousin  has  done?  The  secret  must  be 
well  kept,  and  the  world  will  be  none 
the  wiser." 

"You  know  of  it  yourself,  pretty 
sir!"  cried  the  crone.  "I  did  but  try 
you,  and  you  confess  plainly  enough 
that  one  of  the  players  knows  who 
trips  'neath  the  little  scarlet  cloak! 
Shame  upon  you  and  your  crew!  And 
she — betrothed  to  an  honest  man  who 
will  never  look  her  in  the  face  again!" 
146 


O'IX>NDOTST 


Shakspere  glanced  toward  the  next 
room,  fearing  lest  these  words  had 
reached  the  twins.  Then  he  softly 
closed  the  door,  and  with  a  majestic 
stride,  approached  the  old  woman. 

"Goody,"' he  asked  sternly,  "whose 
fault  is  this?  How  dared  you  send  her 
down  to  us  in  Burbage's  arms?" 

"Did  I  send  her,  sir?  Lord,  who 
could  have  held  her  back?  You  were 
going  to  carry  off  a  dying  lad!" 

"That  does  not  explain!  Answer 
me!  You  did  not  wish  to  let  Philip 
go?" 

"No,  nor  would  not!" 

"Phyllis  has  always  been  a  modest, 
virtuous  girl?" 

"God  knows  it,  sir!" 

"Who  put  such  a  thought  then  into 
her  head?  You  bewitched  her,  Goody!" 
he  exclaimed,  before  the  terrified  old 
creature  could  answer.  "To  save 
Philip,  you  bewitched  her!  And  if  by 
tears  or  words  against  her,  you  let  one 
147 


breath  of  dishonor  attach  to  her  name, 
I  shall  see  you  reported  to  the  sheriff." 

"Now  Heaven  be  my  witness,  I,  a 
poor  old  dame " 

"No  words,  no  words!  This  must  go 
no  further,  do  you  understand?" 

"Alas,  sir,  what  will  her  brother 
say?" 

"Who  is  to  tell  him?" 

"Why,  sir,  how  can  she  explain  her- 
self?" " 

"Leave  that  to  her." 

"And  all  her  beauty  gone!" 

"Beauty  ?  Pray,  who  has  stolen  that 
away?" 

"Her  hair,  sir!  Did  you  not  know 
her  braids  of  hair?  Her  mother's  hair, 
but  twice  over!  Two  strands  the  like 
of  which  are  not  in  London!  And  she 
cut  it  off  without  a  word  or  even  a  mo- 
ment's pause!  What  would  her  mother 
say?  Dear  gentle  lady!  What  would 
her  father  say?  Noble  gentleman  that 
he  was!  For,  sir,  Bloody  Queen  Mary 
148 


i 


has  brought  them  to  this  pass.  Good 
Protestants,  their  fine  estate  went  to 
the  Crown,  and  the  poor  father  died 
in  prison.  My  sweet  young  mistress 
never  smiled  after  that.  Thank  God 
she  soon  followed  her  good  husband! 
Thank  God  she  never  lived  to  see  this 
day!" 

Heavy  steps  were  now  heard  as- 
cending the  stair,  and  the  old  woman 
jumped  up,  gasping: 

"Oh,  'tis  Master  Revelation  Reeves! 
Whatever  shall  I  do?" 

Shakspere  pushed  her  back  into  her 
chair,  with  a  command  to  be  silent. 
"Cry  if  you  like,  but  don't  venture  to 
speak!"  he  said. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  man  of  enor- 
mous stature  entered  the  room.  He 
was  clad  in  the  stately,  homely  Puritan 
costume  of  gray;  massive  and  rugged, 
he  seemed  like  a  stone  tower;  thick 
iron-gray  hair  hung  to  his  shoulders. 
After  the  custom  of  his  sect,  he  neither 
149 


A 
IE 


O' LONDON 


removed  his  hat  nor  made  any  formal 
greeting.  Looking  first  at  Shak- 
spere,  then  at  Goody  Tabitha,  he 
delivered  himself  of  the  remark  that 
God  had  all  souls  in  His  keeping. 
Shakspere's  silence  and  the  old 
woman's  broken  sobs  confirmed  this 
statement. 

The  Puritan  then  addressed  himself 
to  Shakspere,  taking  him  naturally 
enough  to  be  the  physician. 

"Learned  sir,"  he  exclaimed,  "you 
are  doubtless  in  this  house  of  woe  try- 
ing to  mitigate  the  stern  judgments  of 
an  angry  God.  It  were  better  to 
leave  my  young  brother  in  peace.  On 
a  bed  of  weakness  and  pain  let  him 
learn  the  purposes  of  the  Father  who 
chastens  him.  Plainly  in  this  in- 
stance is  the  Divine  hand  dissuading 
him  from  a  life  of  vanity  and  folly." 

"The  hand  of  a  godless  man  or  of 
the  devil  has  wrought  this  harm,"  re- 
150 


PLAYERS 
O' LONDON 


plied  Shakspere.     "Why    lay 
God?" 

"I  know  not  of  the  circumstances," 
answered  the  other,  somewhat  aston- 
ished. "But  if  it  be  as  you  say,  the 
more  it  behooves  my  young  relative  to 
remove  himself  from  associations  that 
render  his  life  unsafe.  I  am  the  more 
closely  concerned  in  this  matter,  be- 
cause I  fear  such  influences  for  his  sis- 
ter, Mistress  Patience,  whom  I  have 
called  to  see." 

"Mistress  Patience!  I  do  not  know 
of  her." 

"Perhaps  the  more  worldly  name  of 
Phyllis  has  reached  you.  Is  she  with- 
in, Mistress  Tabitha?" 

Goody  Tabitha  opened  her  mouth 
to  speak;  but  the  reply  ended  in  a 
groan,  for  Shakspere  had  fixed  a 
menacing  glance  upon  her.  Mistress 
Phyllis  in  a  player's  red  raiment  was 
not  a  sight  for  Puritan  eyes;  but  for 
Mistress  Patience,  the  costume  seemed 
151 


even  more  amiss!  The  man  would 
crush  her  in  a  righteous  rage. 

"Mistress  Phyllis  is  within,"  an- 
swered Shakspere  calmly,  "but  she  is 
so  occupied  in  her  ministrations  to  her 
brother  that  it  would  not  be  well  to 
interrupt  her  or  to  disturb  him." 

"Let  her  fail  in  nothing,  and,  sir,  if 
aught  is  required  for  which  the  means 
of  this  household  seem  inadequate,  I 
shall  be  here  from  time  to  time  ready  to 
defray  such  expenses  as  you  may 
deem  advisable.  Moreover,  sir,  if  I 
might  ask  you  to  be  of  a  peculiar  serv- 
ice to  me,  I  would  gladly  double  your 
accustomed  fee." 

An  amused  smiled  flitted  over  Shak- 
spere's  face. 

"You  are  offering  me  a  bribe,  I  fear, 
worthy  sir,  and  I  must  assure  you  that 
I  have  not  an  itching  palm.  If  the 
peculiar  service  you  ask  is  one  that  it 
befits  me  to  give,  I  shall  be  honored  to 
oblige  you." 

152 


"Sir  physician,  you  do  not  know  to 
whom  you  speak,  if  you  imagine  that 
Revelation  Reeves  could  seek  a  favor 
that  would  demean  the  donor.  No,  I 
ask  only  your  help  for  the  soul  of  this 
diseased  boy.  I  am  seeking  to  turn 
him  aside  from  the  path  of  destruc- 
tion. Advise  him  that  his  health  will 
never  permit  him  to  return  among  the 
players.  Their  drinking,  gluttony, 
debauchery,  irregularity  and " 

"Their  list  of  offenses  must  be 
great,"  broke  in  Shakspere,  "and  you 
doubtless  speak  from  personal  experi- 
ence and  intercourse  with  these  de- 
graded people;  but  spare  me,  sir,  I 
have  no  wish  to  hear  further  of  them. 
A  priest  gave  me  not  long  since  a 
scathing  description  of  the  Puritans, 
whom  he  declared  to  be  without  a  re- 
deeming feature ;  but  on  the  following 
day,  a  Puritan  gave  me  an  equally  un- 
pleasant description  of  the  priests.  I 
am  an  honest  man,  sir;  and,  believe  me, 
153 


I  know  not  where  to  turn  for  compan- 
ions. Concerning  the  favor  you  ask, 
our  opinions  differ.  It  would  demean 
me  to  press  my  views  upon  a  sick  man; 
so  did  I  agree  with  you  in  regard  to 
the  players,  I  should  still  refuse;  but 
as  it  is,  let  me  confess  that  I  have  a 
hearty  respect  and  admiration  for 
them.  They  seem  to  me,  on  the  whole, 
a  generous,  frank  and  well-meaning 
set  of  men.  Moreover,  their  vocation 
is  one  which  has  its  origin  in  religion. 
They  are  teachers  and  interpreters  of 
life.  The  Miracle  Plays  are  only 
acted  sermons." 

"Relics  of  Popery!  But  I  see  you 
will  be  of  no  assistance  to  me,  sir. 
Once  more  may  I  inquire  for  Mistress 
Patience?"  And  he  turned  to  Goody 
Tabitha.  "I  will  await  her  here." 


"* 


v 


XVI 

In  which  good  comrades  run  away 

HAKSPERE  entered 

Philip's  room;  Phyllis  was 
kneeling  by  the  bed,  arid 
her  brother  still  slept.     Twi- 
light  had  veiled    all    in    its 
shadows,  but  the  fact  that 
Phyllis  wore  masculine  attire  and  that 


for  tbrc  '3  toatcfc  tobilat  t&outioet  toafer  rlsttobrrc, 
from  w  far  off,  toitj)  otjjew  all  too  near!" 

Sonnet  LXI. 


' 


, 


O^lfONJDOTST 


her  hair  hung  short  on  her  shoulders 
could  hardly  be  concealed  even  with 
the  help  of  the  coming  darkness. 

"Phyllis,"  he  said,  "one,  Revelation 
Reeves,  is  waiting  without  to  see  you ; 
hut  it  is  time  for  us  to  be  gone  if  you 
still  intend  to  return  with  me." 

Phyllis  gave  a  terrified  start. 

"Revelation  Reeves !  Oh,  how  I  fear 
that  man!  So  cold,  so  hard  and  relent- 
less! Philip  has  always  come  between 
him  and  me  and  lent  me  courage;  but 
now  without  Philip,  I  cannot  face  him. 
And,  oh  heavens,  I  had  forgotten  this 
attire!  And  my  hair  is  gone!  Shak- 
spere,  what  shall  I  do?" 

"You  wish  to  return  with  me?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  I  fear  only  to  be  left 
behind!" 

"If  you  failed  to  return,  Lord 
Hunsdon  would  send  here  to-morrow 
to  demand  explanations." 

"Which  I  could  not  give.    And  if  I 
go,  who  will  be  the  wiser?" 
156 


O  LONDON 


"Goody  Tabitha,  perhaps,  and  Rev- 
elation Reeves." 

"I  care  not.  I  try  to  think  only  of 
Philip.  When  he  recovers,  how  re- 
joiced he  will  be  to  find  that  his  work 
has  not  suffered — that  he  is  still  in 
favor  at  Court  and  has  even  won 
praise!" 

"Do  not  deceive  yourself,  Phyllis,  he 
may  feel  that  you  have  run  too  great 
risks  and  have  made  too  big  a  sacri- 
fice!" 

Phyllis  jumped  up,  laughing  softly. 
"You  do  not  understand,"  she  said. 
"Philip  and  I  think  alike ;  twins  always 
do.  He  will  say,  'Sister,  you  are 
braver  than  I  thought,  and  have  done 
more  than  I  supposed  lay  in  a  woman's 
power  to  do !  You  have  kept  my  place 
for  me  among  the  players  and  saved 
me  from  disgrace.  Thank  you,  my 
sister,  no  one  can  ever  love  you  as  I 
do,  and  I  can  never  thank  you  enough 
for  what  you  have  done.'  " 
157 


O' LONDON 


"You  think  he  will  say  all  that?" 
"I  think  he  will  feel  it.    I  know  he 
will  feel  it.     There  will  be  no  need  to 
say  it  all." 

"Then  you  will  return  with  me?" 
"Yes,  but  how?  Will  they  let  me?" 
"Walk  close  beside  me.     I  will  hide 
you  between  me  and  the  wall.     Step 
when  I  step  and  pause  when  I  stop  to 
speak.     They  have  no  candle." 

"But  first  I  must   see    Goody!     I 
must  tell  her  what  to  do  for  Philip !" 

"She  knows  as  well  as  you  do  what 
should  be  done  for  Philip.  Truly,  I 
think  he  will  be  much  improved  by  to- 
morrow. His  sleep  is  deep  and  sound, 
and  a  bowl  of  fresh  milk  on  awakening 
will  greatly  restore  his  strength." 
Here  Shakspere  bethought  himself  of 
the  remaining  contents  of  the  phial  in 
his  pocket.  "This  wonderful  Italian 
elixir  will  insure  his  speedy  recovery," 
he  exclaimed.  "I  had  it  for  him  from 
John  Florio,  and  the  greater  part  of  it 
158 


has  been  wasted  on  you!"  He  poured 
the  fluid  into  a  glass  and  set  it  on  a 
chair  beside  the  bed.  "I  can  give 
Goody  full  directions,"  he  continued, 
"if  you  will  but  do  as  I  have  said. 
Keep  close  to  me!" 

The  light  was  dim  in  the  outer  room. 

Shakspere  held  his  cloak  loosely  over 
his  arm;  and  as  he  walked,  Phyllis  was 
close  on  his  right  side.  He  hid  her 
slight  figure  carefully  and  deliberately 
and  detained  her  firmly  with  his  right 
hand  when  he  stopped  to  speak. 

"Mistress  Tabitha,  give  my  patient  a 
bowl  of  warm  milk  when  he  awakens 
and  pour  into  it  the  medicine  I  have 
left  in  his  glass.  He  is  in  a  deep  sleep, 
which,  I  trust,  will  last  until  morning. 
Let  no  one  see  him  or  disturb  him  on 
any  account.  Let  no  one  enter  his 
room  unless  he  call.  And  you  are  to 
speak  very  little,  Goody,  and  softly." 

A  few  steps  more,  and  they  had 
159 


O*IX>rsTDOIN 


reached  the  door;  here  he  paused  to  ad- 
dress the  Puritan: 

"Master  Reeves,  Mistress  Patience 
bids  you  make  use  of  that  virtue  which 
is  her  name ;  and  if  she  comes  not  anon, 
it  will  be  only  because  her  duties  have 
detained  her." 

Revelation  Reeves  bowed  his  head 
in  acquiescence.  There  was  a  look  of 
calm  persistence  in  his  pose  that  boded 
a  lengthy  stay,  and  as  the  door  closed 
behind  them,  Shakspere  whispered: 

"I  warrant  you,  that  granite  column 
will  not  budge  till  morning.  We  have 
planned  a  pleasant  night  for  him, 
which  he  will  spend  in  happy  thoughts 
of  you,  feeling  your  presence  near." 

Phyllis  disagreed. 

"He  comes  only  from  a  sense  of 
duty,  and  that  will  not  keep  him  long. 
A  message  left  for  me  with  Mistress 
Tabitha  will  serve  his  ends." 

"Do  not  believe  a  man  who  says  he 
comes  to  see  you  from  a  sense  of  duty, 
160 


O'L-OrSTDOIN 


Phyllis.  I  have  no  special  liking  for 
Puritans,  yet  this  one  did  not  strike  me 
as  quite  a  fool.  Keep  pace  with  me. 
They  must  not  hear  double  steps  upon 
the  stairs." 

When  the  two  reached  the  outer 
door,  Phyllis  paused  in  some  trepida- 
tion. "If  he  should  be  looking  from 
the  window!" 

"It  is  too  dark  for  him  to  recognize 
us.  But  Goody  will  soon  be  in  that 
forbidden  room  to  hear  of  your  ad- 
ventures." 

They  hurried  away  from  the  house 
and  breathed  more  freely  when  they 
had  turned  a  corner  and  the  familiar 
neighborhood  was  left  well  behind 
them. 

Then  Shakspere  spoke: 

"Do  I  understand,  Phyllis,  that 
Revelation  Reeves  is  your  betrothed 
husband?  I  cannot  believe  Goody 
Tabitha  told  the  truth  in  saying  so." 

"And  why  not?"  asked  Phyllis. 
161 


Shakspere's  heart  stood  still.  But 
it  could  not  be  true ! 

"You  seem  entirely  your  own  mis- 
tress, Phyllis.  Surely  you  will  take 
counsel  of  none  but  your  own  feelings 
in  so  grave  a  matter!" 

"Not  unless  it  is  forced  upon  me! 
Master  Reeves  is  our  guardian  since 
our  father's  death.  He  is  a  country 
gentleman  of  wealth,  interested  only  in 
the  welfare  of  his  soul.  Our  poverty 
and  distress  have  in  no  way  disturbed 
him;  but  when  Philip  left  the  Cathe- 
dral players,  to  join  a  company  of 
veritable  actors,  Revelation  Reeves 
came  post  haste  to  London,  fearing 
that  the  immortal  souls  in  his  charge 
were  in  danger.  You  should  have 
heard  Philip  talk  to  him!  So  bravely, 
so  nobly  in  defense  of  his  art  and  of  his 
friends !  How  I  loved  him  for  it!  Dear 
Philip,  he  is  so  loyal!  Master  Reeves 
could  do  nothing  with  him.  But 
where  I  was  concerned,  they  agreed 
162 


t>L2\V<SRS 
O1  LONDON 


better,  and  I  am  to  be  betrothed  be- 
fore the  year  is  out  to  some  godly  man 
of  my  guardian's  choosing." 

"To  himself?" 

"Truly,  I  do  not  know.  I  think  not, 
for  he  is  not  yet  sufficiently  assured  of 
my  sobriety  and  dignity.  He  has 
never  talked  to  me  of  the  matter." 

"If  he  hears  aught  of  this  escapade, 
he  will  be  very  angry." 

"But  why  need  he  know,  Will  Shak- 
spere?" 

"Little  rose  that  you  are,  how  could 
you  bloom  in  the  shadow  of  such  a 
wall?  I  hope  the  man  may  learn  all 
and  wash  his  hands  of  you." 

"I  should  not  grieve.  I  am  hap- 
pier with  Philip — and  with  you." 

Her  whole  heart  went  out  to  him 
in  grateful  affection,  and  she  knew  of 
no  reason  to  deny  the  new  delight  that 
filled  her.  "He  will  trust  me  and  for- 
get to  be  jealous  or  suspicious  when  he 
163 


knows  I  would  please  him  rather  than 
the  others,"  she  thought. 

And  he?  The  temptation  was  too 
great.  His  arm  slipped  unrebuked 
around  her.  Why  not?  It  was  but  a 
poet  and  a  lad  who  walked  along  the 
Thames  toward  Whitehall.  That 
they  were  happier  than  others,  what 
passer-by  knew? 

The  moon  came  up  and  shone  inter- 
mittently behind  a  host  of  small  black 
clouds  that  scudded  angrily  by  her. 

"See,"  cried  Phyllis,  "they  try  to  put 
her  light  out,  and  think  they  have  con- 
quered her;  but  she  only  rises  on  into 
the  night." 

"Like  a  blameless  soul,"  murmured 
Shakspere,  with  a  sigh  that  came  from 
the  depths  of  his  being. 

Phyllis  sighed  in  sympathy.  "It  is 
all  so  beautiful,"  she  whispered.  "Is 
it  wrong  that  I  am  not  grieving  more 
for  Philip?  He  will  soon  be  well.  I 
think  only  of  his  surprise  when  he 
164 


r" 


knows  all  i  have  done!  Truly,  he  will 
be  amazed,  will  he  not?  Never  can 
he  say  that  it  was  to  no  purpose  our 
father  taught  me  in  his  company. 
For,  Shakspere,  you  do  not  know  the 
full  list  of  my  accomplishments.  I 
have  even  made  verses.  Oh,  poetry,  I 
adore  it! 

"Shakspere!"  She  turned  to  him 
with  tremulous  eagerness.  "Write 
something  for  me!  Something  that  I 
can  have  for  my  own!  Lines  on  this 
beautiful  night — the  moon  shining  on 
the  Thames — something  I  can  keep  for 
always !" 

With  what  pretty  innocence,  she 
courted  her  own  undoing!  Surely,  no 
fair  ship  with  white  sails  set  ever  made 
more  gloriously  for  the  destroying 
reef.  The  poet  was  only  a  man. 


165 


XVII 

In  which  a  poet  makes  love 


SONNET  for  you,  Phyl- 
lis? Why,  my  heart  is 
full  of  them!  Listen!"  He 
paused  a  moment  and  then 
began : 


Thine  eyes  I  love " 


"for  notbiaj  tine  tofte  tmltoem  3  call, 
§>abe  ibou,  mp  rose;  in  it,  tbou  art  my  all/ 
/Sonnet  CIX. 


"Oh,  no—  the  night!"  Phyllis  inter- 
rupted. 

"That  comes  in  after:  it  begins  — 


"Thine  eyes  I  love,  and  they,  as  pity- 

ing me  — 
Knowing   thy   heart   torments   me 

with  disdain  — 
Have  put  on  black  and  loving  mourn- 

ers be, 

Looking  with  pretty  ruth  upon  my 
pain."     .     .     . 

Phyllis  held  her  breath. 

"And  truly  not  the  morning  sun  of 

heaven 
Better  becomes  the  gray  cheeks  of 

the  east, 
Nor  that  full  star  that  ushers  in  the 

even, 

Doth  half  that  glory  to  the  sober 
west 

167 


o1L-orsrr>oiN 


As  those  two  mourning  eyes  become 

thy  face. 
Oh,  let  it  then  as  well  beseem  thy 

heart 
To  mourn  for  me  since  mourning  doth 

thee  grace, 

And  suit  thy  pity  like  in  every  part ; 
Then  I  will  swear  beauty  herself  is 

black 
And  none  are  fair  that  thy  complexion 

lack." 

Silence  followed,  broken  only  by  the 
water  lapping  below  the  embankment. 

At  last,  Phyllis  faltered: 

"I  cannot  believe  that  it  was  new  for 
me!  Surely — you  had  thought  of  it 
before." 

"Yes,  every  time  I  have  looked  at 
you,  it  has  been  in  my  thoughts;  but, 
Phyllis,  it  has  never  been  in  words  be- 
fore!" 

"A  sonnet,  and  to  me!  No  one  shall 
168 


s 


ever  hear  it  from  your  lips  as  I 
hav 

"Reward  me  with  a  kiss!    So! 

"Your  lips  come  after  your  eyes. 
And  only  to-day  they  were  cruel! 
Listen : 

"Those  lips  that  Love's  own  hand  did 
make 

Breathed  forth  the  sound  that  said  'I 

hate' 
To  me  that  languished  for  her  sake; 

But  when  she  saw  my  woeful  statey 
Straight  in  her  heart  did  mercy  come, 

Chiding  the  tongue  that  ever  sweet 
Was  used  in  giving  gentle  doom, 

And  taught  it  thus  anew  to  greet: 
'I  hate'  she  altered  with  an  end, 

That  followed  it  as  gentle  day 
Doth  follow  night,  who  like  a  friend 

From  heaven  to  hell  is  flown  away; 
'I  hate'  from  hate  away  she  threw, 
And    saved    my    life,     saying — 'not 
you.' " 

169 


"Not  you,"  echoed  Phyllis.  "Oh, 
no,  indeed!  But  it  was  you  who  were 
unkind." 

"But  I  love  you,  Phyllis!" 

"Do  I  love  you,  Will?" 

"No,  no,  do  not  say  it.  You  would 
not  mean  it." 

"But  I  think  I  do." 

"I  cannot  believe  it." 

"But  you  must." 

"No,  no!  Think  of  my  position, 
Phyllis!  I  cannot  drag  you  down  to 
this  level." 

"I  shall  not  call  it  down." 

*'Would  you  renounce  the  possibility 
of  ever  becoming  the  honored  wife  of 
such  a  man  as " 

"For  your  sake?  Oh,  how  can  you 
ask!  The  happiness  of  being  yours  is 
far,  far  greater." 

Yours  meant  "your  wife"  to  Phyllis, 
but  it  could  not  mean  that   to   Will 
Shakspere  while  Mistress  Anne  dwelt 
placidly  in  Stratford. 
170 


15 


"You  could  not  be  happy  with  me 
alone,"  he  said. 

"Forever!"  she  insisted. 

"While  you  loved  me!" 

"So  long  as  you  loved  me." 

"That  would  be  forever!"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"So  I  believe." 

"But  I  who  am  older  and  wiser  can- 
not believe  in  your  continued  love. 
Phyllis,  I  know  women  too  well.  For 
a  week  or  a  month,  I  could  make  you 
content,  and  then — if  you  should  re- 
proach me,  there  would  be  left  me  but 
death  in  life." 

"Believe  me,  Shakspere,  I  am  not 
like  others!  I  fail  you?  I  reproach 
you?  Oh,  my  dear  love,  a  thousand 
times,  no!" 

He  clasped  her  to  his  breast. 

"You  accept  me,  then,  as  your 
lover?" 

"Yes!" 

171 


"You  consent  to  belong  to  me,  to  me 
alone?" 

"I  am  yours  alone.  How  can  I  be- 
long to  another?" 

"Then  this  is  the  hour  for  which  my 
soul  was  made.  The  long  years  have 
brought  me  to  if  by  devious  ways,  but 
the  sorrows  of  the  past  are  as  nothing! 
No  grief  can  overtake  me  but  the  loss 
of  you " 

"Speak  not  of  that,  dear  love,  you 
have  too  little  faith." 

"Then  teach  it  me." 

"Truly,  I  will  try,  and  yet,  even  I 
can  hardly  believe!" 

Oh,  beautiful  night  and  golden 
moon  and  lovers  vows  too  hastily  and 
too  tenderly  plighted !  The  wonder  of 
a  dream  was  in  it  all,  and  the  fear  of 
waking  now  and  again  breathed  a  chill 
breath  over  each  heart.  But  he  only 
drew  her  the  closer  to  him,  and  she 
only  pressed  his  hand  the  tighter  to  her 
breast. 


XVIII 

In  which  misfortune  threatens  a  friend 

kHEY  reached  the  Palace 
toward  nine,  having   heen 
more  than  two  hours  return- 
ing over  a  distance  that  had 
taken  them  less  than  an  hour 
earlier  in  the  day.     Making 
their  way  at  once  to  the  theatre,  they 


to&ere  t&ott  art  to&p 


3  &a0te 
Sonnet  LI. 


found  Lord  Hunsdon  and  several  of 
the  players  talking  over  the  notice  on 
the  curtain. 

"This  must  be  the  second  time, 
then,"  Sly  was  saying.  "He  slipped 
away  a  little  after  five,  for  I  was  in 
here  looking  for  him,  and  'tis  plain  he 
had  to  go  back  again  for  something." 

"I  would  have  sent  a  man!"  ex- 
claimed Lord  Hunsdon.  "Faith!  the 
fellow  is  walking  his  legs  off,  while  we 
have  need  of  him." 

"I  am  here  at  your  service,  my 
Lord,"  said  Shakspere,  stepping  for- 
ward. 

"  'Tis  well!  I  was  seeking  you." 
"Where  shall  I   attend  you,   my 
Lord?" 

"At  my  apartments." 
"I  shall  be  there  with  all  speed." 
"You  may  come  with  me  at  once." 
"Pardon  me;  but  with  your  Lord- 
ship's leave,  I  must  first  inform  the 
Earl  of    Southampton,    who    awaits 
174 


O'L-orsTDorsf 


me."  So  saying,  Shakspere  hurried 
off  with  the  faithful  little  shadow  who 
had  followed  him  all  day. 

"Oh,  Phyllis,  I  cannot  bear  to  leave 
you  for  a  moment,"  he  whispered. 
"My  precious  little  jewel-casket,  what 
corner  is  safe  enough  to  hide  you  in?" 

"I  am  very  tired,"  she  answered. 
"Let  me  go  to  rest  at  once." 

"That  will  be  best.  And  I  will 
come  to  you  the  moment  I  am  free  of 
this  business.  I  know  not  what  it  is, 
but  I  hate  it  even  without  knowing,  for 
it  keeps  me  away  from  you." 

Once  more  they  entered  Southamp- 
ton's rooms,  which  were  unoccupied  as 
on  the  previous  evening. 

"I  dread  to  leave  you,  Phyllis,  I 
know  not  why!"  Shakspere  cried.  "My 
soul  senses  some  calamity  to  you." 

"You  are  over-anxious  because  of 

my  false  position  here,"  she  said,  "and 

I,  too,  am  distressed  since  you  are. 

But  I  will  slip  into  the  little  room,  and 

175 


no  one  shall  know  that  I  am  hidden 
there." 

"Good!"  he  exclaimed,  somewhat  re- 
assured. "And,  Phyllis,  promise  me 
not  to  stir  until  I  return!" 

"Yes." 

"Dearest — most  beautiful!  You 
know  that  I  shall  hasten." 

"There  is  no  need.  I  shall  be  safe 
enough." 

Shakspere  sought  the  Lord  Cham- 
berlain. 

Lord  Hunsdon  was  in  most  affa- 
ble humor.  He  greeted  Shakspere 
with  a  friendliness  and  cordiality  that 
was  well  understood  to  indicate  a  com- 
ing request.  After  some  words  of 
unqualified  praise  as  to  the  actors  and 
the  play  of  the  morning,  and  some 
kindly  questions  and  suggestions  as 
to  the  performance  of  the  morrow, 
there  came  a  pause.  Shakspere,  who 
was  burning  with  eagerness  to  seek 
176 


w 


his  new-found  idol,  made  an  effort  to 


escape. 

"My  Lord,"  he  said,  "y°u  have  af- 
fairs of  more  importance  on  hand.  Do 
not  keep  me  in  suspense,  but  let  me 
know  at  once  how  I  can  serve  you." 

"Since  you  make  it  thus  easy  for  me 
to  begin,  Master  Shakspere,  I  will 
come  to  the  point  at  once.  You  will 
be  deeply  interested,  even  concerned  at 
what  I  purpose  to  relate.  It  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  you  are  a  friend  to 
his  Grace  of  Southampton — that  he  is 
in  fact,  your  patron?" 

"It  is  not  saying  too  much,  nor  even 
half  enough.  His  Lordship  is  my 
most  undeservedly  kind  friend  and 
patron,  and  I  am  his  most  devoted  ad- 
mirer and  humble  servant." 

"Hum!  Ah!  Then  you  would 
doubtless  feel  a  desire  to  serve  him  if 
need  were?" 

"Who  can  suggest  a  service  that  I 
177 


may  render  to  my  Lord,  does  me  a 
real  favor." 

"Well,  well,  this  is  as  I  hoped.  His 
Lordship  has  need  of  friends;  he  is  in 
some  danger.  His  mother  is  in  great 
distress  to-night." 

"Her  ladyship  spoke  to  me  yester- 
day. She  is  seeking  a  marriage  for 
her  son " 

"No,  no — not  now!  Trying  to  avoid 
it,  rather!  For,  Master  Shakespere,  it 
is  already  whispered  and  loudly  whis- 
pered that  the  Earl  is  courting  Mis- 
tress Vernon  with  too  great  familiar- 
ity." 

"Truly,  he  seems  attached  to  her." 

"Oh,  these  women!  Master  Shak- 
spere,  beware  of  a  dark  lady!  The 
Queen  does  well  to  distrust  them.  A 
power  of  mischief  lurks  in  a  brown  eye ! 
And  black  tresses  are  a  veritable  snare ! 
But  this  must  not  come  about.  The 
Queen  would  never  brook  it.  Mis- 
tress Vernon  has  some  hold  on  South- 
178 


ampton  through  her  cousin  Essex,  but 
even  he  would  not  approve  the  match. 
Lord  Southampton  must  seek  a  wom- 
an higher  in  rank;  he  must  seek  a 
richer  woman — a  better  woman!  A 
very  different  woman  in  fact!  And  he 
can  afford  to  wait  a  year  or  two  rather 
than  to  make  such  a  misalliance  as  this 
would  be." 

"It  can  be  arranged  then,  I  am  sure, 
my  Lord;  all  the  Earl  desires  is  per- 
mission to  wait  a  little  longer.  Un- 
less forced  into  it,  there  is  no  reason 
why  he  should  marry ;  for,  my  Lord,  as 
you  well  know,  his  mistress  is  already 
so  kind  that  he  has  little  left  to  gain." 

"Too  true!  But  I  am  sure  the  lady 
wishes  it,  and  her  influence  may  be 
powerful.  You  know  what  a  design- 
ing woman  can  do  with  a  hot-headed 
young  man!" 

"Then  what  do  you  suggest,  my 
Lord?" 

"That  in  some  way  you  make  an  ef- 
179 


o'LrONDorsr 


fort  to  divert  our  friend.  If,  for  in- 
stance, he  could  be  brought  into  a  mild 
intrigue  with  some  other  woman,  or  if 
he  could  have  some  occasion  for  for- 
eign travel.  The  latter  would  be  best. 
These  are  simply  points  for  you  to 
touch  on.  I  want  you  to  use  your  in- 
fluence. You  know  that  Essex  leaves 
shortly  with  the  army  for  Cadiz.  That 
would  be  a  good  opening." 

"In  this  matter  I  cannot  promise, 
my  Lord;  it  is  little  to  my  liking  to 
try  to  force  my  opinions  or  those  of 
others  upon  a  friend.  I  have  already 
refused  one  such  request  this  evening. 
My  influence  is  somewhat  over-rated 
I  do  assure  you." 

"But  I  wish  you  to  know  that  im- 
prisonment would  follow  any  attempt 
on  his  Lordship's  part  to  marry  one  of 
the  Queen's  maids  without  her  Maj- 
esty's consent." 

"Surely,    then,    Mistress    Vernon 
could  never  wish  to  ruin  him!" 
180 


- 


"She  would  ruin  him  fast  enough  in 
order  to  have  him!  Such  a  fine  young 
man,  too!  It  is  a  pity!  I  wanted  you 
as  his  friend  to  know.  That  is  all. 
Pray  do  what  you  can." 

Shakspere  took  a  hurried  leave,  after 
promising  to  do  his  best.  He  was  less 
impressed  by  this  unpleasant  news 
than  he  would  have  been  a  few  days  be- 
fore. To  return  to  Phyllis!  that  was 
all  his  thought.  He  re-entered  South- 
amptons'  chamber,  and  gave  thanks 
that  it  was  empty.  He  crossed  to  the 
door  of  the  little  room  in  which  his  be- 
loved lay  hid. 

"Phyllis,"  he  whispered.  But  she 
had  been  very  tired,  perhaps  she  was 
now  asleep !  There  came  no  response, 
and  he  assured  himself  that  he  had  ex- 
pected none.  He  lifted  the  latch  of 
the  door  very  softly  and  opened  it  a 
little  way. 

"Phyllis!"  he  said  again.  Then  he 
closed  the  door,  and  curbing  his  impa- 
181 


tience,  resolutely  determined  not  to  en- 
ter the  room  as  his  whole  soul  cried 
out  to  do. 

"God  forbid  that  I  should  intrude 
upon  my  lady's  sleep,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "No,  let  me  wait  until  she  can 
assure  me  of  my  welcome." 

"Truly,"  he  added,  "love  maketh  of 
a  proud  man  an  excellent  slave." 
There  was  no  sleep  for  his  eyes,  but 
he  pulled  the  couch  before  her  door  as 
on  the  previous  night  and  lay  listen- 
ing for  the  slightest  sound  that  should 
tell  him  Phyllis  waked  or  in  her  dreams 
whispered  his  name. 


182 


XIX 

In  which  Phyllis  meets  with  a  great 
loss. 


HEN  Shakspere  left  her, 
Phyllis  went,  as  she  had 
promised,  into  the  little 
wardrobe  off  of  Southamp- 
ton's room.  She  was  just 
within  and  had  not  had  time 


ffritf  Itea  antoart,  auto  rap  iop 

Sonnet  L. 


O7  LONDON 


to  close  the  door  when  the  young  Earls 
of  Southampton  and  Bedford  entered 
the  apartment.  Not  wishing  to  make 
her  presence  known  by  the  click  of  the 
latch,  she  gently  pulled  the  door  to. 
Her  heart  was  so  full  of  happiness  that 
the  little  room  seemed  to  hold  all  the 
stars  of  heaven  and  all  the  flowers  of 
the  field.  The  moon,  too,  was  there, 
shining  on  the  Thames;  she  had 
brought  with  her  all  the  beautiful, 
never-to-be-forgotten  night.  She  still 
felt  her  lover's  arm  about  her,  and  the 
music  of  his  words  was  in  her  ears ;  but 
her  ecstatic  mood  was  harshly  dispelled 
when  the  laughter  of  the  two  Lords  in 
the  adjoining  room  broke  rudely  upon 
her.  Then  Southampton's  clear  voice 
rang  out  mockingly: 

"No,  Bedford,  no!  Fortune  has  al- 
ready blessed  you  beyond  your  deserts ! 
My  contingent  is  none  too  large,  and 
those  who  attach  themselves  to  me  for 
love,  I  shall  reward  in  kind.  You 
184 


shall  not  take  one  away  from  me,  no, 

m 

,*2sSa  1  not  one  !  If  it  had  been  my  doing,  why, 

•^ 

r 

then  it  were  a  different  matter!" 

'-^ 

/ 

r? 

"If  it  had  been  your  doing,  I  should 

not  ask  anything  of  you  !  I  would  not 

take  away  the  scamp,  if  you  had  hired 

him!  But  of  all  the  brazen  effrontery! 

To  tell  me  with  such  an  honest  face 

that  he  was  already  considering  serv- 

ice under  you  !" 

"He  was,  he  was!"  laughed  South- 

ampton.    "I  did  not  know  it,  that  is 

all;  he  was  considering  it,  and  if  he 

knows  his  mind  now  and  wants  it,  he 

has  got  it!" 

"But,  zounds!   I  wanted  that  boy, 

and  you  care  nothing  about  him." 

"You  mistake,"  replied  Southamp- 

ton sweetly,  "I  do  care  now  —  I  love  all 

who  have  the  good  taste  to  love  me.     I 

would  not  part  with  Philip  for  any- 

thing you  could  offer!" 

"You  are  easy    prey,    my    Lord," 

snorted  Bedford,  then  turning  back  as 

185 

j 

vivV        '                                                                               ss  \ 

he  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  he 
sent  a  Parthian  shaft. 

"Your  dear  Shakspere  is  this  minute 
plotting  to  ruin  you  with  Mistress 
Vernon!  Hunsdon  has  just  sought 
him  after  an  interview  with  your 
mother,  and  he  is  engaging  to  turn 
your  interests  elsewhere." 

"That  dear  friend  cannot  seem  to  do 
enough  for  me,"  responded  South- 
ampton, "he  has  me  always  on  his 
heart,  and  I  doubt  not  you  are  right 
about  this  matter.  Shakspere  knows 
that  ennui  is  ruinous  to  my  beauty  and 
to  my  temper.  He  is  often  quicker 
than  I  to  detect  its  approach." 

"If  he  had  spent  less  time  planning 
for  your  wife  and  more  time  taking 
care  of  his  own,  you  would  both  be  bet- 
ter off." 

"Mistress  Anne  is  quite   well   and 
happy,"  retorted  Southampton.  "You 
have  been  misinformed  if  anyone  has 
told  you  to  the  contrary." 
186 


Bedford  left,  slamming  the  heavy 
door  after  him,  and  Southampton  con- 
tinued to  laugh  for  some  time  after 
the  other  had  gone.  Then  he  straight- 
ened himself  up,  and  an  amused  twin- 
kle came  into  his  eyes. 

"This  Philip  does  seem  eminently 
desirable!  If  I  could  only  know 
whether  Shakspere  had  brought  the 
witch  here  for  me  or  for  himself,  I 
might  tell  better  how  to  proceed.  Per- 
haps this  is  his  plan  to  turn  me  aside 
from  my  present  flame.  Will  Shak- 
spere's  taste  is  beyond  all  praise. 
Heavens,  was  not  that  Juliet  some- 
thing to  die  for!" 

At  this  moment,  the  wardrobe  door 
opened,  and  as  if  in  response  to  his 
unspoken  desire,  the  face  he  was  think- 
ing of  appeared  before  him. 

"Ah,  little  Philip,"  exclaimed 
Southampton,  "I  was  but  now  speak- 
ing of  you." 

"And  I,  my  Lord,  a  forced  listener 
187 


r 


A 


to  you  and  my  Lord  of  Bedford,  must 
confess  the  fault " 

"And  receive  absolution  full  and 
free." 

"If  I  am  pardoned,  may  I  ask  of 
your  Grace  a  favor?" 

"Yes,  and  I  grant  it  before  it  is 
asked.  You  wish  to  enter  my  service; 
I  will  have  you  gladly,  but  only  with 
Master  Shakspere's  consent :  only  with 
Master  Shakspere's  consent,  mind  you, 
for  I  am  very  loyal  to  my  friends." 

"Then  be  my  friend,  my  Lord,  and 
help  me!"  entreated  Phyllis.  "It  is 
not  of  entering  service  that  I  wish  to 
speak,  but  of  another  matter.  I  know 
not  how  to  explain  myself,  but  oh,  my 
Lord,  help  me,  help  me  to  get  away!" 

Southampton  leaned  back  and  sur- 
veyed her  with  cool  amazement. 

"Little  friend,  I    cannot    be    sure 

whether  you  are  acting  now  or  not! 

Your  vehemence  surprises  me  no  less 

than  the  strangeness  of  the  favor  you 

188 


O'  LONDON 


ask.  Pray,  where  is  it  that  you  wish  to 
be  escorted  at  this  hour?  What  part 
of  Whitehall  demands  your  presence 
for  the  rest  of  the  night?  Perchance 
you  are  not  comfortably  bestowed  in 
that  closet  room?"  he  added,  as  an  aft- 
erthought. "Believe  me,  there  is  noth- 
ing here  but  what  is  at  your  service." 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  exclaimed  the  fright- 
ened girl. 

"Tell  me,  sweet,  what  is  it  that  you 
want?" 

It  flashed  through  Phyllis's  mind 
that  it  would  take  a  good  answer  to 
save  her  from  the  double  disaster  of 
Shakspere's  returning  and  finding  her 
again  with  Southampton. 

"I  have  lost  something*"  she  said,  "a 
jewel  I  prize  more  than  anything  else 
in  the  world.  I  had  it  this  morning, 
and  now  it  is  gone.  I  cannot  rest  un- 
til I  have  at  least  looked  about  the 
stage  for  it." 

"Is  it  a  ring  that  you  have  lost?" 
189 


"No,  my  Lord,  a  heart;  one  left  me 
by  my  mother." 

"I  have  never  noticed  it;  where  did 
you  carry  it?" 

"As  an  amulet  on  my  breast,  my 
Lord.  It  was  too  precious  to  show." 

"Of  gold?" 

"Of  pure  gold,  my  Lord.  I  have 
never  been  without  it." 

"When  did  you  discover  the  loss?" 

"While  you  were  talking  with  the 
Earl." 

Here  Phyllis  burst  into  tears,  bitter 
tears !  All  she  had  said  was  true,  and 
it  came  over  her  with  a  hopeless  sense 
of  bitterness  and  shame.  Her  heart 
was  not  only  lost;  it  was  crushed  and 
broken. 

"What!  weeping?"'  exclaimed 
Southampton.  "I  cannot  believe  you 
would  take  the  loss  of  a  childish  trinket 
so  seriously!  I  shall  be  glad  to  replace 
it  for  you." 

"No  one  can  replace  it,  my  Lord." 
190 


raa 


FLAVORS 
O' LONDON 


"Then  we  shall  find  it  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"I  am  going  to  seek  it  now." 

"No,  I  think  it  best  to  keep  you  here 
a  little  longer.  Will  Shakspere  will 
soon  return,"  said  Southampton,  lay- 
ing a  detaining  hand  upon  her  arm. 

By  this  time,  Phyllis  was  in  mad 
haste  to  be  gone. 

"My  Lord,"  she  said,  her  eyes  flash- 
ing dangerously,  "I  have  a  most  un- 
ruly temper.  If  you  seek  to  cross  me, 
I  shall  forget  all  your  past  kindness 
and  give  a  scream  that  will  wake  the 
farthest  echoes." 

"A  scream  is  very  easily  stifled,"  re- 
torted Southampton,  looking  much 
amused. 

"But  as  a  host,"  he  continued,  "force 
does  not  become  me.  I  will  go  with 
you  to  the  theatre.  It  is  not  lighted 
now." 

So  saying,  he  took  a  hand-lamp  and 
followed  her  into  the  hall. 
191 


Phyllis  made  no  objection;  she  was 
well  satisfied  to  have  a  companion 
through  the  dim  corridors,  and  the  lit- 
the  wick  flared  up  brightly  at  every 
turn  and  cast  its  friendly  light  into  the 
dark  corners  where  suspicious  shadows 
lurked. 


192 


XX 

In  which  the  Earl  endeavors  to  console 


HEN  they  reached  the 
theatre,  Southampton 
stepped  ahead,  opened  the 
door  and  took  a  careful  sur- 
vey; then  he  closed  the  door 
softly  and  turned  back 


again. 


ftc.irt  t&at  makes  my  Ijcart  to  groan 
Jar  that  fcerp  toatmti  it  sibee  rap  frienU  anH  me!" 

CXXXIII. 


"It  is  just  as  I  thought,  you  little 
witch,"  he  exclaimed,  "Burbage  is 
there  on  the  stage  waiting  for  you. 
Please  throw  aside  this  masquerade. 
If  you  are  tired  of  Shakspere,  take — 
me!" 

For  a  moment,  Phyllis  was  too 
frightened  to  speak.  Then,  "My 
Lord,  you  are  jesting!"  she  gasped. 

"No,  I  am  in  earnest." 

"You  know  who  I  am?" 

"I  know  you  are  not  what  you  pre- 
tend to  be!" 

"You  refuse  to  let  me  enter  here?" 

"I  do." 

"And  if  I  insist?" 

"I  shall  prevent  you." 

"I  shaU  call  to  Burbage  for  help!" 
exclaimed  Phyllis. 

"Your  call  will  never  be  heard." 
He  shook  out  his  silken  kerchief.  "I 
should  smother  it  with " 

"You  would — strangle — me?"  fal- 
tered Phyllis. 

194 


Oh,  what  a  child  you  are! 


you?   Not  for  worlds !  I  should  smoth- 


er your  scream  with  kisses, 
you  mind  that  so  much?" 

She  made  no  response  and  stood  a 
moment,  thinking.  Her  plight  seemed 
desperate. 

"My  Lord,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  ad- 
mired and  respected  you  last  night 
when  you  told  me  of  your  love  for  the 
most  beautiful  lady  in  the  Court! 
Think  now  how  you  are  falling  in  my 
esteem!  What,  sir,  is  more  to  be  con- 
demned than  an  unfaithful  lover?" 

"Why,  there  is  only  one  answer  to 
that — a  faithless  lady  is  more  to  be 
condemned,  as  all  the  world  admits. 
But,  in  this  Court,  pardons  are  easily 
had  for  the  one  and  for  the  other. 
Our  Virgin  Queen  shines  all  the  more 
resplendent  in  contrast  with  the  frail- 
ties of  those  who  surround  her!" 

"And  yet,  you,  sir,  I  should  expect 
to  find  above  these  swaying  fancies — a 
195 


knight  whose  loyalty  has  been  called 
steadfast  as  the  North  Star!" 

The  Earl  blushed.  He  was  not 
proud  of  the  part  he  was  playing. 
Mistress  Vernon  and  Will  Shakspere 
were  both  like  to  be  betrayed.  Yet 
for  his  life,  he  could  not  have  torn  him- 
self away  from  this  bewildering  girl 
in  the  page's  suit  of  red. 

"It  is  not  right  that  you  should 
chide  me,"  he  said,  "for  I  follow  your 
eyes  bewitched,  as  do  all  who  see  you. 
Moreover,  my  loyalty  is  proven  in  my 
guarding  a  treasure  that  rightly  be- 
longs to  my  friend.  Tell  me  truly,  is 
not  Shakspere  your  lover?" 

Phyllis  clasped  her  hands  to  her 
breast  where  her  heart  seemed  like  to 
break.  Why  had  she  tried  to  escape 
from  that  dearest  of  men?  Why  had 
she  not  waited  and  told  him  all — told 
him  how  impossible  it  would  be  for  her 
to  be  the  blot  upon  the  fair  pages  of  his 
honor!  She  could  have  trusted  him, 
196 


O' LONDON 


she  should  have  trusted  him!  Ah  yes, 
and  then  she  admitted  to  herself  that 
she  had  fled  because  she  could  not  have 
trusted  herself!  At  his  side,  the  rest  of 
the  world  would  have  lost  its  due  pro- 
portion: she  would  have  realized  only 
that  she  had  found  her  world  in  him. 
And  that  other — Mistress  Anne — 
would  have  slipped  so  far  into  the 
background  as  to  be  forgotten. 

"My  Lord,"  she  said,  "I  have  run 
away  from  Will  Shakspere.  I  am  a 
girl,  as  you  have  guessed ;  but  what  you 
will  not  believe,  I  am  an  honest  girl 
most  unhappy.  I  took  my  brother's 
place  with  the  players  because  he  was 
sick  unto  death.  I  was  kept  here  by 
force  last  night,  but  Will  Shakspere 
guarded  me  safely  in  your  little  room. 
He  is  good  and  kind,  as  are  you,  my 
Lord.  Now  leave  me — just  to  show 
that  you  believe  what  I  have  said." 

"What  you  have  said  does  not  ex- 
plain your  being  here  to-night." 
197 


"No!"  She  raised  a  lovely,  tearful 
face  to  his  and  then  cast  down  her  eyes. 
"My  Lord,  I  have  lived  and  died  since 
yesterday.  To-night  Will  Shakspere 
told  me  that  he  loved  me!  I  confessed 
my  love  for  him.  I  thought  to  be  his 
wife!" 

"His  wife !"  It  was  now  Southamp- 
ton's turn  to  be  astonished. 

"I  knew  nothing  of  Mistress  Anne," 
she  continued,  "until  I  heard  you 
speak  of  her  to-night.  He  said  he 
loved  me,  but  it  was  my  fault!  I  tried 
so  hard  to  please  him!  He  spoke  of 
his  sad  position — I  thought  he  meant 
the  profession  of  which  he  is  really 
proud.  Oh,  I  was  blindly  foolish,  but 
I  led  him  on,  not  knowing;  and  now 
how  shall  I  face  him?  My  Lord,  you 
must  go  to  him.  Tell  him  of  the  mis- 
take I  have  made!  Ask  him  to  forgive 
me,  as  I  forgive  him,  and  to  forget-  - 
as  I  can  never  do." 

"You  knew  nothing  of  Mistress 
198 


Anne?  Why,  Shakspere  has  used  you 
shamefully !  Shamefully  indeed !"  said 
the  Earl  with  virtuous  indignation. 

"Oh,  no,  the  fault  was  all  mine!  I 
forgot  a  woman's  place.  But  after 
what  I  told  him  he  will  never,  never 
understand!" 

"Well,  since  knowing  something  of 
Mistress  Anne  grieves  you  so  greatly, 
why  not  know  less  of  her  and  forget 
her  altogether?"  suggested  the  Earl. 

"Alas,  I  am  sick  with  sorrow," 
mourned  Phyllis,  "but  no  deed  of  mine 
shall  ever  make  my  mother  to  weep  in 
her  grave." 

"My  advice  is  to  forget  Mistress 
Anne.  It  is  very  easily  done;  she 
never  has  been  to  London.  How  do 
we  know  that  she  really  exists  at  all? 
She  demands  far  less  attention  than 
other  ladies  our  poet's  brain  creates." 

"But  she  is  still  his  wife.  Is  she 
beautiful?  No,  no!  I  do  not  wish  to 
hear  of  her  nor  to  think  more  of  him." 

199 


"This  is  verily  beauty  in  distress! 
How  shall  I  best  console  you?"  he  said, 
and  kissed  her.  But  Phyllis  was  too 
wretched  to  care. 

"Will  Shakspere  hath  a  rare  charm, 
but  there  are  other  men!" 

"There  is  none  comes  after  the 
King!  He  shall  be  my  King  always; 
afar  from  me  but  faithfully  loved. 
Now  look  again  into  the  theatre,  my 
Lord,  I  think  I  heard  the  side  door 
close.  By  this  time,  Burbage  is  gone." 

They  entered.  The  stage  was  de- 
serted. 

The  moon  which  had  lighted  Phyl- 
lis's  walk  was  now  in  mid-sky,  and  on 
the  floor  lay  pools  of  white  light  from 
the  upper  windows. 

"A  grewsome  place  in  which  to  leave 
a  weeping  girl  alone,"  he  muttered. 
"Sweet  one,  if  you  will  go  back  with 
me,  I  promise  you  peaceful  rest.  Not 
a  word,  not  a  whisper,  shall  disturb 
you." 
. 200 


' 


"There  is  no  rest  where  the  players 
are,  I  have  found  that  out!"  she  an- 
swered wearily.  "Here,  my  Lord!  See! 
This  is  where  I  shall  sleep  to-night." 

Juliet's  bier  was  her  couch.  She 
folded  the  black  draperies  over  her  and 
closed  her  eyes. 

The  Earl  of  Southampton  looked  at 
her  in  dismay.  "Oh,  not  there!"  he 
entreated.  "It  is  too  forbidding." 

She  looked  up  with  a  sad  little  smile. 

"I  am  safe  here,  and  you  have  been 
kind." 

"Perchance  you  are  safe,  but  you  are 
not  happy.  And  I  am  at  a  loss  how  to 
explain  this  to  Will  Shakspere.  I 
shall  say  nothing  at  all  to  him  of  your 
whereabouts." 

"That  is  well.  I  wish  not  to  see 
him." 

"I  am  sorry  for  him.  He  loves  a 
lady  who  runs  away  from  love." 

"Oh,  no,  my  Lord!  Not  from  love, 
but  from  shame  and  disgrace.  It 
201 


O  LONDON 


could  never  have  come  about  but  for 
my  folly." 

"You  are  a  little  Puritan;  but  the 
Puritans  will  never  want  you  back 
among  them  after  this  play-acting." 

"I  care  not.  I  have  done  no  wrong. 
My  brother  will  understand." 

"Well,  sweetheart,  if  trouble  befalls 
you,  count  upon  me  as  a  friend.  There 
are  many  ways  in  which  I  might  be  of 
service  to  you;  and  there  is  nothing 
that  I  should  refuse.  Since  your  loss 
cannot  be  mended,  I  shall  make  no  ef- 
fort to  replace  it ;  but  wear  this  token 
as  a  sign  of  my  affection  and  regard. 
It  will  secure  speech  with  me  for  your- 
self or  for  any  messenger  by  whom  you 
may  choose  to  send  it." 

With  these  words,  he  took  from 
among  the  jewels  that  he  wore  a  little 
heart  of  gold  such  as  she  had  described. 
It  bore  his  monogram  and  crest  in 
beautiful  workmanship — a  fact  that 
Phyllis  was  in  no  mood  to  appreciate. 


O*  LONDON 


She  could  not  know  that  the  locket, 
and  the  chain  from  which  the  Earl  now 
proceeded  to  suspend  it,  were  intended 
originally  as  a  gift  for  Elizabeth  Ver- 
non ;  and  so  she  let  him  clasp  the  chain 
around  her  neck,  but  made  no  fitting 
show  of  gratitude. 

Then,  most  unwillingly,  the  Earl 
left  her. 

And  thus  it  happened  that  while 
the  Puritan  watched  before  one  door 
and  Will  Shakspere  before  another, 
Phyllis  lay  crying  alone,  in  the  great 
deserted  hall. 


208 


XXI 

In  which  everyone  is  miserable 

OUTHAMPTON    en- 
tered his  apartments  in  a 
depressed  frame  of  mind. 
The  sight  of  Shakspere  rest- 
ing before  the  door   of  the 
empty  room  disturbed  him 
further.    He  felt  no  desire  to  tell  his 


'£)o*t  tbtm  ttttfirt  mp  eltunbrru  sbouHj  be  broken 
WWt  ebaBome  like  to  tbee  )o  morfe  mp  eijbt ?" 


O  LONDON 


friend  that  the  bird  had  flown;  such 
discoveries  some  soon  enough  in  the 
natural  course  of  events.  While 
grieved  for  Shakspere's  loss  and  for 
Phyllis's  unhappiness,  he  was  also  dis- 
concerted at  his  own  position.  As  an 
honorable  man  it  was  his  duty  to 
marry  Elizabeth  Vernon;  that  might 
mean  ruin.  His  passion  for  her  had 
been  intense,  but  it  had  been  easily 
gratified!  He  could  have  wished  her 
more  like  the  little  Puritan.  "And 
sweets  grown  common  lose  their  dear 
delight,"  he  mused,  quoting  from  his 
poet.  "Oh,  Betty  Vernon— oh,  Lady 
Juliet!  what  a  sad  maze  you  have  me 
in!" 

Matters  had  reached  such  a  pass 
that  he  must  either  marry  his  lady- 
love or  leave  the  Court.  He  was  will- 
ing to  marry  her,  had  his  guardians 
sanctioned  the  match.  He  did  not 
care  enough  for  her  to  face  imprison- 
ment, perhaps  death,  for  her  sake;  the 
205 


first  wild  enthusiasm  of  his  love  was 
over.  It  seemed  to  the  Earl  that  he 
was  more  seriously  involved  than  were 
these  unfortunate  players,  for  no  hon- 
orable escape  was  left  him.  "I  fear  I 
shall  be  forced  to  develop  a  martial 
spirit  and  sail  with  Essex  for  Spain," 
he  said  to  himself,  "but  that  is  not  solv- 
ing the  problem,  it  is  only  running 
away."  Wherein  he  spoke  the  truth, 
as  history  was  to  prove. 

Southampton  retired,  without  con- 
fiding his  perplexities  to  Shakspere, 
who  was  feigning  a  sleep  as  peaceful 
as  that  which  shortly  overtook  the 
Earl.  No  sooner  did  the  young  man's 
even  breathing  assure  the  poet  that  he 
slept,  than  Shakspere  was  up  and  at 
work  upon  his  everlasting  rhymes  by 
the  light  of  the  little  lamp  that  had 
guided  his  sweetheart's  steps  away 
from  him.  He  was  eagerly  planning 
a  series  of  sonnets  to  Phyllis  on  the 
theme  of  love,  a  companion  series  to 
206 


the  sonnets  on  friendship  that  he  had 
nearly  completed  in  honor  of  his 
patron.  The  morning  dawned  with- 
out his  becoming  aware  that  Phyllis 
was  absent. 

At  sunrise,  he  was  interrupted  by  a 
knock  at  the  outer  door;  hastening  into 
the  hall  he  found  Burbage  there.  The 
great  tragedian  seemed  much  dis- 
traught. He  could  hardly  speak,  and 
his  teeth  fairly  chattered. 

"Come  with  me!"  he  exclaimed,  seiz- 
ing Shakspere's  hand.  "Come,  there 
is  a  ghost  abroad.  I  am  greatly  dis- 
turbed by  a  recent  adventure.  I  went 
into  the  theatre  early  this  morning:  the 
moon  had  set  in  the  west  and  the  sun 
had  not  risen,  yet  its  veiled  light  was 
brightening  the  sky;  and,  Shakspere, 
when  I  stepped  upon  the  stage,  I 
thought  I  should  turn  to  stone  with 
fright.  I  saw  Philip  lying  on  the  bier, 
his  eyes  closed,  dead!  I  saw  him  as 
plainly  as  I  see  you  now!  I  went  up 
207 


V 


to  him  as  close  as  I  am  to  you  now. 
I  touched  his  hand,  it  was  cold.  Then 
I  fled,  horrified!  I  told  Armin  and  Sly 
that  our  poor  little  friend  was  dead. 
They  hurried  to  the  stage,  and,  Shak- 
spere,  no  one  was  there!  But,  friend,  I 
saw  with  my  eyes  and  even  touched 
with  my  hands.  This  forebodes  some 
awful  catastrophe.  Was  Philip  with 
you  last  night?" 

Shakspere  made  no  answer.  He 
doubted  not  that  Philip  had  died  in 
the  night.  Alone  at  home,  perhaps  he 
had  called  for  his  sister  and  called  in 
vain,  with  no  response  from  her  he 
loved  best.  "And  Phyllis  slept  so 
quietly  that  even  I  was  grieved,"  he 
said  to  himself  with  a  sigh. 

They  mounted  the  stage  and  exam- 
ined the  bier.  It  had  certainly  been 
pulled  from  its  place  in  the  wings,  and 
the  draperies  were  somewhat  disar- 
ranged. 

"I  am  not  superstitious,"  said  Bur- 
208 


O'lrOTNDON 


bage,  "and  what  I  saw,  I  saw!  You 
can  hardly  blame  me  for  dreading  to 
know  what  the  day  may  bring  forth." 

"I  am  superstitious,"  said  Shak- 
spere,  "if  that  means  to  believe  that 
there  are  secrets  in  heaven  and  earth 
beyond  our  understanding.  I  doubt 
not  I  shall  live  to  rue  this  day.  If  it 
were  any  other  than  yourself  who 
made  the  report,  I  should  not  be  dis- 
turbed; but  your  nerves  are  of  iron. 
Yet  the  moonlight  plays  strange 
tricks ;  if  a  ray  of  light  fell  lengthwise 
across  the  black  folds " 

"Yes,  it  might  look  like  a  white 
figure,  but  hardly  like  a  figure  clothed 
in  brilliant  red,  with  pale  face  and 
hands  cold  to  the  touch." 

"Well,  there  remains  only  to  pro- 
ceed!" exclaimed  Shakspere  impatient- 
ly. "Can  we  give  up  the  play?  The 
Earl  of  Bedford  was  pleased  to  tell 
the  Queen  of  its  success  at  his  wedding 
celebration,  and  he  has  quoted  Puck's 
209 


' 


O' LONDON 


words  of  her  Majesty.  She  wishes  to 
hear  herself  described  'The  moon's  im- 
perial votaress.'  Every  one  knows 
that  we  are  ready  to  give  the  play  and 
what  excuse  can  we  offer?" 

"Have  you  not  noticed  a  change  in 
Philip?"  questioned  Burbage,  un- 
easily. 

"Since  he  came  with  us?  None. 
And  he  has  been  more  with  me  than 
with  you." 

"Well,  have  an  eye  on  him  to-day. 
Bedford  and  Southampton  have  both  a 
mind  to  take  him  from  our  company: 
but  truly,  I  should  feel  as  badly  to  have 
him  desert  us  as  to  have  him  dead." 

"Bedford  and  Southampton !  Where 
did  you  learn  of  their  plans  ?  Bedford, 
indeed!  He  could  never  steal  away 
one  of  my  players!  He  lacks  the  wit 
to  make  his  service  seem  attractive  and 
starts  in  to  make  of  a  new  man  a  bar- 
ber. But  Southampton!  That  is  an- 
other matter.  Who  told  you  of  his  in- 
210 


tentions?"  Shakspere  was  evidently 
disturbed. 

At  this  moment,  Phyllis  came 
toward  them.  She  had  concealed  her- 
self in  a  recess  near  the  door  and  ap- 
peared to  have  but  just  entered  the 
theatre.  Both  men  hastened  to  greet 
her. 

"We  have  been  talking  of  you, 
Philip,'*  said  Burbage.  "I  am  not 
happy  about  you.  I  have  a  dread  of 
secret  poisoning,  and  it  seems  to  me 
you  grow  paler  each  day." 

"I  am  pale  to-day  with  good  rea- 
son," answered  Phyllis.  "I  have  made 
a  grievous  mistake.  I  must  get  for- 
giveness of  Will  Shakspere  before  I 
know  peace  again."  Child  that  she 
was,  she  thought  to  be  over  at  once  with 
the  sad  matter  that  oppressed  her. 

Shakspere's  eyes  rested  tenderly  on 
her  sweet  face.  "It  is  granted  with- 
out my  hearing  further,"  he  said. 


"No,  I  must  talk  with  you,"  Phyllis 
insisted. 

"If  he  attempts  to  scold  you  for 
your  fault,  call  on  me,"  cried  Burbage, 
"unless  you  speak  of  some  change  in 
your  plans.  We  shall  not  excuse  you 
from  our  service."  So  saying,  he  left 
them. 


M 


XXII 

In  which  Phyllis  knows  not  her  own 
mind. 

HAKSPERE,"    she 

turned  to  him  limpid  eyes 
swimming  with  tears  and 
lips  that  trembled  like  those 
of  a  child  about  to  weep — 
"Shakspere,  yesterday  I  for- 


bator  31  bato  tbcr  act  a  Hmm  tooth  flatter; 
sleep  a  tunff,  but  toakinff,  no  £mc&  matter." 

Sonnet 


O1L-OrSTDON 


got  everything  but  you.  To-day,  the 
world  crowds  in  upon  me.  Dearest,  I 
cannot!" 

"You  cannot?  Why,  that  means 
you  will  not!  What  will  you  not? 
Have  I  lost  by  my  patience  through 
the  long  night?  I  lay  like  a  faithful 
dog  before  your  door,  not  venturing 
to  whisper  for  fear  of  disturbing  your 
sleep!  But  it  is  not  that!"  He  seized 
both  her  hands  in  his.  "You  do  not 
speak  of  our  love,  for  that  is  a  heaven- 
ly thing.  It  is  of  this  play  you  speak ! 
You  mean  you  cannot  go  on  with  it — 
you  must  no  longer  take  this  risk! 
Burbage  feels  it.  I  will  send  to  the 
Queen's  Players  at  the  Cathedral  for 
a  substitute.  This  is  of  no  great  im- 
portance, and,  dear  love,  if  it  were, 
you  are  more  to  me  now  than  all  else. 
I  loved  you  first  because  you  gratified 
my  vanity  and  my  ambition;  but  now 
because  you  alone  can  satisfy  my  every 
desire." 

214 


"Oh,  Shakspere,"  exclaimed  Phyllis, 
"I  could  not  satisfy  you  long!  Were 
we  alone  in  some  island  of  the  sea,  we 
might  make  our  world  anew ;  but  here 
in  the  envious  crowd,  I  should  be  like  a 
jewel  lying  in  your  hand,  yet  not  fas- 
tened to  it  by  any  ring.  Every 
glance  upon  me  would  arouse  your 
suspicions;  for,  Shakspere,  you  have 
too  lively  a  mind  to  rest  your  faith  up- 
on a  woman  not  lawfully  bound  to  you. 
You  would  say  at  last,  'She  is  not 
faithful  to  the  honest  mother  who  bore 
her!  How  long  will  she  be  faithful  to 
me?' " 

He  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 

"Phyllis!"  he  exclaimed,  "what 
change  has  come  over  you  since  last 
night?  You  melted  into  my  arms,  the 
other  "half  of  me,  the  dream  and  the 
song  of  my  lif e  became  woman !  I  have 
been  like  one  dying  of  thirst  since  I  left 
you!  What  has  changed  you?  To 
215 


whom  have  you  spoken  that  has  told 
you  so  falsely  of  me !" 

"See,  already  you  ask  'To  whom 
have  you  spoken?'  No  one  has  talked 
to  me  of  you.  My  conscience  has  awak- 
ened. It  was  drowned  in  the  poetry 
and  the  moonlight."  She  would  not 
say  "I  did  not  know";  it  seemed  to  cast 
the  blame  on  him. 

"Love  is  too  young  to  know  what 
conscience  is!"  vowed  Shakspere. 
"You  mean  that  I  have  ceased  to  be 
the  world  to  you!  Oh,  Phyllis,  you 
cannot  ask  me  to  resign  what  I  never 
claimed,  and  what  you  off ered  of  your 
own  will!" 

"I  am  thinking  now  of  your  wife." 

"I  have  had  no  wife  these  many 
years — and  never  had  a  mate." 

"Mistress  Anne?" 

"Oh,  Phyllis,  she  is  far  away,  re- 
moved from  me  and  from  my  life  by 
her  own  will!  She  has  no  part  in  it — I 
have  not  seen  her  these  ten  years.  She 
216 


played  Venus  to  a  boy  Adonis  for  a 
brief  space ;  but  an  accession  of  virtue 
since  her  marriage  has  made  her  the 
most  rigid  of  Puritans.  She  despises 
my  present  calling,  though  she  enjoys 
the  fruits  of  it.  Mistress  Anne  is  a 
contented  woman,  happy  in  her  chil- 
dren and  her  home,  while  I — must  I  be 
denied  the  companionship  that  is  life's 
only  happiness?  Phyllis,  the  world 
admits  the  right  of  such  a  love  as  I 
feel  for  you!" 

"The  world  may  admit  it,  and  so 
weak  am  I  that  I,  too,  would  gladly 
admit  it ;  if  I  could  put  faith  in  what  is 
faithless — if  I  could  honor  what  is  not 
honorable,  or  if  you  could!  But  no! 
Listen : 

I  thine,  thou  mine!  O  dream  too  sweet 

to  be! 
Yet  'twas  the  hope  thy   dear   words 

raised  in  me. 

217 


A  blot  upon  thy  fame's  fair  page  to 

make? 

Forgive    me,    Love!     I    cannot — for 
Love's  sake! 

That  is  my  final  answer.  I  said  it 
over  a  thousand  times  before  I  fell 
asleep.  You  love  me,  not  because  I 
am  beautiful,  for  you  know  many 
beautiful  women.  If  you  love  me, 
Shakspere,  it  is  because  I  try  to  be 
good  and  brave  and  true.  Your  soul 
divines  the  truth,  even  though  you  fail 
to  believe  it." 

"You  are  not  true — I  cannot  believe 
you!"  exclaimed  Shakspere.  "If  I 
had  tempted  you,  this  would  be  no 
more  than  I  deserved.  But  I  guarded 
every  word.  I  kept  my  eyes  away 
from  your  face  and  treated  you  as  my 
own  sister;  I  took  you  safely  home. 
Then,  Phyllis,  you  came  back  with  me 
of  your  own  will.  You  invited  me  to 
speak  of  love,  you  asked  me  to  trust 
218 


you;  you  protested  your  faithfulness, 
your  utter  devotion ;  when  I  could  not 
believe  you,  you  pleaded  with  me  to 
believe!  And,  now — oh,  Phyllis,  there 
is  only  one  way  to  explain  this 
change!"  His  reasoning  was  swept 
you.  For  very  pity,  deceive  me  again 
into  the  bliss  of  yesterday!" 

"How  can  I  endure  this?"  moaned 
away  in  his  anguish — "Phyllis,  I  love 
Phyllis.  "You  will  not  understand!" 

"I  cannot  understand." 

"Return  then  to  your  own  words  a 
short  time  since ;  you  said  'Juliet  could 
face  death  but  not  disgrace.'  " 

"Yes,  and  you  vowed  she  should 
have  left  all  to  follow  Romeo." 

"I  see  now,  Shakspere,  that  you 
were  right." 

"I  know  that  you  were  right,  and  I 
was  wrong.  But  it  matters  not  to 
you.  At  your  bidding,  reason  hath  left 
me.  I  am  past  cure.  Your  conquest 
of  me  is  complete.  You  look  now  else- 
219 


1 


Does  my  dear  friend  please 


where, 
you?" 

"Oh,  most  unkind!  You  do  not  love 
me!  Love  could  not  live  side  by  side 
with  such  base  thoughts!" 

"Why,  how  else  can  I  justify  the 
wrong  that  your  unkindness  lays  upon 
my  heart?  Deny  it,  Phyllis,  deny  it 
all!  Tell  me  what  I  have  said  is  all 
a  lie!" 

"'Tis  all  a  lie!" 
"And  you  are  true?" 
"Oh,  I  am  true,  too  true,  alas!" 
"For  if  I  should  despair,  I  should 
go  mad." 

"Do  not  despair!" 
"You  do  not  love  another?" 
"None  but  you,  nor  ever  shall!" 
"In  any  case,  'tis  wise  to  tell  me  so!" 
"It  is  not  wise,  but  it  is  true!"  and 
Phyllis,  sobbing,  threw  her  arms  about 
his   neck.     Tears,   kisses,    reassuring 
words  and  tenderest  reconciliation! 
"What  power  now  can  save  my  soul 
220 


- 


from  hell  ?"  asked  Phyllis.  "For  here 
on  earth,  I  have  sinfully  accepted 
heaven!" 

And  he  answered,  "If  there  be  one 
hell,  there  must  needs  be  two ;  for  mine 
could  only  be  the  place  where  you  were 
not!" 


XXIII 

In  which  Philip  shows  his  gratitude, 
and  Phyllis  finds  a  champion 

HE     players    and     their 
friends  were  now  thronging 
into  the  theatre. 

"A  brief  rehearsal,  good 
fellows,"  said  the  Lord  Cham- 
berlain, "then  after  breakfast 


"Cl)P6rlf  tbp  foe,  to  tb?  stum  self  too  mtfl.' 

Sonnet  I. 


£K€  PlAVCRS 
O  LONDON 


we  will  give  the  play.  That  being  fin- 
ished, her  Majesty  proposes  a  most  lib- 
eral payment  for  your  intelligent  and 
very  interesting  services.  Let  nothing 
be  hurried  or  ill  done.  We  have  been 
agreeably  informed  of  the  excellence 
of  this  comedy." 

The  rehearsal  began  forthwith. 
Burbage  was  nervous,  Shakspere  dis- 
traught, Phyllis  as  pale  as  marble, 
but  oh,  how  lovely!  Bravely  she  pro- 
ceeded, taking  with  a  good  grace,  the 
criticisms  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain 
and  listening  eagerly  for  the  prompt- 
ing of  her  lover.  He  had  failed  to 
instruct  her  at  the  time  set,  but  he  now 
supplied  any  forgotten  word  or  phrase 
with  a  skill  enhanced  by  the  ardor  of 
his  passion. 

When  Phyllis  reached  the  lines  that 

described  Helena's    happy    girlhood, 

her  voice  took  on  a  tragic  tone.     Were 

those  days  gone  forever?    It  was  as 

223 


though  Will  Shakspere  had  fondly  de- 
scribed her  brother  and  herself  : 


"Both  warbling  of  one  song,  both  in 

one  key, 
As  if  our  hands,  our  sides,  voices  and 

minds 
Had  been  incorporate.     So  we  grew 

together 
Like  to  a    double   cherry,    seeming 

parted, 

Two  lovely  berries  moulded  on  one 
stem." 

Looking  toward  the  main  door, 
her  eyes  dilated  suddenly,  and  she 
stretched  out  her  arms  - 

"Philip!"  she  called. 

All  turned.  Entering  the  room  was 
her  double,  a  youth  clad  in  scarlet,  and 
followed  by  a  large  man  in  gray. 

"Oh,  Philip!"  cried  the  sister,  "are 
you  strong  enough  to  be  here!  You 
should  not  have  left  home!"  Her  words 


O'LrONDON 


came  incoherently  from  the  fullness  of 
her  heart. 

But  the  other  approached,  silent, 
pale,  so  like  herself  that  it  was  a  mar- 
vel to  all  who  saw.  Stopping  in  front 
of  the  stage,  he  pointed  at  her  and 
called,  with  the  cry  of  an  accusing 
spirit,  "Come  down,  you  scarlet 
woman!" 

She  stopped  and  brushed  her  hand 
over  her  face  as  one  who  believes  not 
eyes  and  ears. 

"Come  down,  you  scarlet  woman!" 
the  young  man  cried  again.  "Living 
disgrace !  I  am  here  not  to  ask  speech 
with  you,  not  to  ask  what  evil  led  you 
astray,  but  to  cast  you  off  utterly!  I 
disclaim  you  to  the  world !  I  say  that 
I  do  not  believe  the  same  mother  bore 
us  two !  I  come  to  return  something  of 
yours!  Something  that  should  have 
been  the  crown  of  your  womanhood! 
Something  I  would  have  guarded  for 
you  with  my  life-blood,  but  which  you 
225 


PLAYERS 
O'  LONDON 


have  cast  away  the  better  to  carry  out 
your  shameful  designs." 

All  looked  at  him  in  amazement  as 
he  tore  open  the  front  of  his  cloak. 

"He  is  raving  mad!"  whispered 
Shakspere  to  Phyllis,  but  the  girl  stood 
mute,  stricken  to  the  soul. 

And  the  horror  in  her  eyes  brought 
fear  to  the  heart  of  her  lover. 

Then  from  his  bosom,  the  youth 
drew  forth  two  heavy  black  ropes,  sin- 
uous and  glistening  like  beautiful  ser- 
pents. 

"Take  them,"  he  cried,  "and  since 
they  no  longer  belong  upon  your  head, 
tie  them  tight,  tight  about  your  neck! 
You  can  find  no  better  place  for 
them."  There  was  a  gasp  of  dismay 
from  one  and  all,  as  he  flung  the  two 
long,  glossy  braids  of  hair  full  in  his 
sister's  face. 

"Young  fool!"  exclaimed  Shak- 
spere, hastening  toward  Philip.  "You 
should  be  the  last  to  do  your  sister  such 
226 


O'L-OrSTDON 


injustice!  She  has  tried  to  serve  you 
by  doing  your  accustomed  work.  She 
has  excelled  you  in  all  the  difficult 
arts  of  the  player!  There  is  no  man 
here  who  knew  of  her  sex  save  I  my- 
self, and  you  have  come  and  betrayed 
all.  I  have  lain  outside  her  door  each 
night,  guarding  her  like  a  watch-dog! 
You  know  me,  Philip!  You  believe 
me!" 

So  persuasive,  so  convincing  was  he 
that  the  youth  stayed  his  onslaught. 
He  looked  around  at  the  faces  of  the 
amazed  spectators.  There  was  gen- 
uine surprise  and  concern  depicted  on 
them.  But  no!  Southampton,  the 
merry,  light-hearted  friend,  showed 
nothing  but  amusement.  The  satiri- 
cal smile  that  played  upon  his  lips  was 
not  reassuring.  In  truth,  the  Earl  was 
more  than  a  little  amused.  The 
knowledge  was  his  that  he  had  escorted 
a  terrified  little  lady  away  from  this 
ardent  defender;  and  at  sight  of  him, 
227 


Philip  turned  upon  Shakspere  with  re- 
newed violence. 

"Nothing  is  sacred  to  you  save  your 
art!"  he  cried,  scornfully. 

"You  feel  not  as  other  men.  What 
is  one  poor  maid  more  or  less,  so  Will 
Shakspere's  plays  go  on?" 

And  now  spoke  Burbage:  "This  is 
my  fault!  I  carried  the  maid  off  by 
force,  and  had  I  known  those  braids 
were  to  be  sacrificed,  indeed  I  had 
never  done  this  thing!  By  the 
Lord,  Philip,  I  thought  it  was  you! 
But  I  should  have  known!  Never  did 
you  play  with  such  passion  and  such 
fire!" 

"Doubtless,  she  is  well  taught  by 
this  time,"  cried  Philip,  "but  I  care 
not!  What  she  is  you  have  made  her, 
she  is  nothing  to  me." 

"Peace,  Philip!"  commanded  Shak- 
spere angrily,  but  enough  cruel  words 
had  already  been  spoken;  and  with  a 
little  despairing  sob,  Phyllis  sank  tc 
228 


the  ground.  Human  nature  could  en- 
dure no  more  after  the  mental  anguish 
and  physical  effort  of  the  past  three 
days.  Shakspere  started  toward  her, 
involuntarily;  Burbage  and  not  a  few 
others  were  anxious  to  proffer  assist- 
ance ;  but  the  Puritan,  who  had  stood  a 
silent  witness  of  the  scene,  was  quicker 
than  they  and  waved  them  aside  an- 
grily. 

"Stand  back,  you  pack  of  wolves!" 
he  said.  "There's  not  one  among  you 
who  is  not  ready  to  seize  and  devour 
this  dove  that  a  loved  hand  has  killed. 
Philip,  Philip,  you  must  answer  for 
this !  Why  did  I  let  you  come  here  to 
murder  this  poor  girl!" 

The  Puritan  seemed  almost  beside 
himself.  He  stood  looking  down  on 
Phyllis's  hardly  conscious  form  as 
though  not  daring  to  touch  her ;  his  lips 
trembled  and  tears  fell  from  his  eyes. 
She  lay  waiting  for  his  final  curse,  like 
a  crimson  rose,  broken  from  the  stem 

229 


O'L/ONDON 


and  cast  aside  to  wither  on  the  ground. 
Rage  filled  him  against  them  one  and 
all  that  they  should  even  look  upon  her 
in  this  plight.  Removing  the  gray 
cape  that  hung  from  his  shoulders,  he 
draped  it  tenderly  about  her  and  then 
raised  her  to  her  feet.  The  volumi- 
nous folds  completely  enveloped  the 
scarlet  figure  which  was  in  a  moment 
transformed  into  the  fairest  and  most 
piteous  of  Puritan  maidens.  There 
was  something  so  womanlike — nay,  so 
childlike  about  her  that  she  won  the 
sympathy  of  the  crowd  in  the  very  in- 
stant, and  a  murmur  of  indignation 
against  Philip  arose. 

But  here  the  master  player  took 
himself  in  hand.  His  passion  for 
Phyllis  was  tempered  by  the  long  af- 
fection he  had  borne  her  brother.  The 
worldly  interests  of  all  demanded  that 
the  startling  scene  now  being  enacted 
should  give  place  to  the  rehearsal.  At 
almost  any  moment,  Lord  Hunsdon 
230 


FLAVORS 
O' LONDON 


might  announce  her  Majesty  and  the 
Court.  What  would  be  the  excitement 
if  Revelation  Reeves  should  express 
himself  before  the  laughing  lords  and 
ladies  of  the  retinue?  If  Phyllis  were 
discovered  by  the  Queen?  by  Mistress 
Vernon?  by  those  gentlemen  who  were 
already  too  well  pleased  with  her? 
Shaking  off  the  spell  that  had  seemed 
to  tie  his  tongue,  he  began  to  issue  di- 
rections and  orders  that  should  bring 
an  end  to  the  chaos. 

"Here,  Philip — enough  of  private 
spleen — put  on  Helena's  robes — our 
play  is  about  to  begin !  You,  Puritan, 
that  seem  also  an  honest  man,  bear  this 
maid  home  and  leave  the  brother  in  her 
stead.  Our  Queen  must  be  amused, 
and  come  what  may,  Will  Shakspere's 
plays  go  on!  Here,  Sly,  some  cordial! 
Philip  is  weak  and  sees  all  things 
amiss!  And  while  he  revives,  shall  we 
let  his  sister  go  without  a  word?  No, 
no!  Our  heartfelt  thanks  are  due!  Our 
231 


thanks  to  Lady  Juliet !  She  is  the  first 
to  show  us  woman's  rightful  place 
upon  the  English  stage.  When  men 
and  women  work  together,  we  shall  see 
the  perfection  of  our  art,  as  we  have 
already  seen  it  in  her!" 

The  Puritan  was  leading  Phyllis 
toward  the  door.  When  they  reached 
it,  she  turned  and  looked  back  toward 
the  players.  Her  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears,  she  could  not  see,  but  she  held 
out  her  arms  with  a  hopeless  but  ap- 
pealing gesture  toward  the  sound  of 
the  beloved  voice.  And  Shakspere, 
turning,  caught  that  mute  appeal,  and 
suddenly  his  lips  were  dumb.  For  a 
moment,  the  two  retreating  figures 
were  framed  in  glowing  sunlight. 
Phyllis  faltered  on  the  step,  and  the 
Puritan's  arms  were  about  her  when 
the  closing  door  shut  out  the  golden 
day. 

To  the  master  player  the  great  hall 
232 


c 


was  deserted.  The  many  moving  fig- 
ures were  but  shadows  and  phantoms. 
Happiness,  a  very  dear  reality,  had 
passed  by,  and  he  must  forever  watch 
joy  from  far. 


233 


J 


ROM  the  difficulties  that 
beset  the  author  in  trac- 
ing further  the  life  of  the 
player  maid,  it  seems  prob- 
able that  there  ceased  to  be 
a  Mistress  Phyllis  soon  after 
she  passed  out  from  the  portals  of 
Whitehall  with  the  Puritan.  If 
the  truth  of  such  a  surmise  be  grant- 
ed, we  may  associate  her  later  life  with 
that  of  the  lovely  Philomela,  a  married 
woman  whose  beauty  formed  the 
theme  of  more  than  one  poet's  praise, 
and  whose  virtue  was  especially  ex- 
tolled by  the  poet  Shakspere. 

Though  her  personal  history  is  in- 
definite and  uncertain,  the  result  of  her 
234 


adventure  is  not  so.  The  appearance 
of  women  on  the  English  stage  grad- 
ually followed  her  escapade.  Only  a 
few  weeks  after  the  players  had  left 
Whitehall,  the  Queen's  maids  of  honor 
took  part  in  one  of  the  masques  or 
playlets  of  the  Court.  It  is  authentic- 
ally reported  that  the  witty  Eliz- 
abeth felt  much  amusement  at  the  sight 
of  Mistress  Vernon  in  the  role  of 
Charity,  and  that  she  commented  upon 
the  peculiar  fitness  with  which  that 
lady  assumed  a  part  that  covered  a 
multitude  of  sins. 

Concerning  the  charming  South- 
ampton, we  must  note  the  fact  that 
though  he  was  induced  to  follow  Essex 
to  the  wars  in  Spain,  his  good  heart 
brought  him  back  to  marry  the  lady 
who  so  dearly  loved  him  and  who  had 
sacrificed  so  much  for  him.  As  he  had 
anticipated,  his  generous  and  courage- 
ous action  caused  him  to  be  confined 
235 


for  a  year  in  the  Tower,  and  lost  him 
forever  the  friendship  of  his  sovereign. 
And  now  a  final  word  as  to  our  poet, 
player  and  man  among  men.  If  we 
have  shown  in  this  simple  tale  that  he 
was  one  of  those  world  favorites,  loved 
in  his  own  time  as  well  as  by  posterity 
for  all  time,  then  we  come  to  the  end 
of  our  story  content,  though  a  little 
sorry  to  part  from  this  "goodly  com- 
panie." 


Cbe  en* 


236 


